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PILOT ON THE RIVER 















* 

























“Loo\ out! His right hand! He's got a \nife” 





PILOT on the RIVER 


By 

LEWIS S. MINER 

Author of Mightier Than the Sword 



Pictured by 

CHRISTINE CHISHOLM 

ALBERT WHITMAN & COMPANY 

ILLINOIS 

I 94° 


CHICAGO 






4 


PZn 

Mts 


Copyright, 1940, by 
Albert Whitman & Company 



Printed in-the U.S.A. 


©ClA 145494 


RECEIVED 

OCT-5 1940 


COPYRIGHT OFFICE 


~ o 



FOR 

FREDERIKA 







CONTENTS 


Page 

Off for St. Louis. 19 

A New Vista. 30 

Mr. Lexington . 44 

Bill Stands His First Watch. 52 

A Rescue Ashore..... 65 

A Dinner Party. 74 

Gamblers on Board. 87 

A Bad Fire. 99 

Convalescence . Ill 

A Disagreement. 123 

Good'bye to Mr. Lexington. 135 

The Alex Scott, Transport. 147 

Ironclads in Battle. 158 

The Ram Fleet. 172 

Scouting up the Yazoo. 182 

A New Post. 191 

Miss Constance Harrison. 201 

Bill Wingate, Prisoner. 213 

Bill Escapes. 222 

Reunion in St. Louis. 234 

The Model of the Challenger. . 244 

Glossary .249 

Bibliography .255 






























/ 










FULL PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS 


COLOR PLATES 

Page 

“Look out! His right hand! He’s got a knife".... 6 
“You’re from the Marine Brigade?". 18 

BLACK AND WHITE PLATES 

Page 

“Capt. Horace Merriman?" he asked. 33 

An amased Bill stood behind Lexington. 55 

Bill haltingly presented Jo to the two girls. 77 

He swung fiercely with the narrow blade. 105 

“Shall we make a run of it?". 125 

“But what can I do?". 141 

The officers rowed out and offered to surrender.. 163 
His party waded through swamps waist deep.... 185 
“Constance,” he cried aloud. “What are you 

doing here?". 209 

A hundred yards to go now!. 231 
























V » 







FOREWORD 


pilot on the river is the story of Bill Wingate, a boy who 
lived during the Golden Days of steamboating on the Lower 
Mississippi during the 1850’s and bore the tragedy of the 
War Between the States in the 1860’s. 

Part of Bill’s story is fictional because Bill, his father and 
most of his friends are creatures of the imagination, just as 
are the steamboats Cotton Belle , River Queen and Magnolia. 
The rest of Bill’s story is fact. All the events in this book 
either did happen or could have happened. 

To assure myself that the facts in this tale are accurate 
and that the fictional portions could have happened or did 
happen to real people, I consulted two experts, an historian 
and a former river pilot. 

At Vicksburg Military Park which overlooks the river 
where the Confederate River Defense Fleet and the Union 
Western Flotilla battled, I received the gracious assistance 
of F. F. Wilshin, Junior Research Technician of the Park 
staff. Later Mr. Wilshin, by scholarly reading of the 
manuscript, made sure of its historical accuracy and fairness 
to both Southern and Northern points of view. 

In the Memphis Library I studied over files of the 
Memphis Appeal with Joe Curtis, River Editor of the pres' 
ent'day Memphis Commercial Appeal , often turning to peer 
out the windows and watch a towboat sweep by on the 
Wolf or farther out, on the Mississippi. Joe Curtis also 
read the ’script and reported that it was accurate as to 
technical details of the boats and their pilots as well as faith' 
ful to the traditions of those old days before and during 
the War. 


FOREWORD (Continued) 


I am also indebted to many other men and women, both 
north and south of the Mason'Dixon Line. There was 
E. E. Ezell of the U. S. Engineers Office, War Department, 
at St. Paul and other members of the Engineers Corps far' 
ther down the river who furnished valuable advice and 
assistance; Mr. Carl Vitz and his staff of the Minneapolis 
Public Library provided important material as did the libra' 
ries at St. Paul, Memphis, New Orleans, Chicago and other 
points; Mrs. C. J. Lignon of Elmscourt near Natchez; car' 
ried me on a fascinating excursion back into ante bellum 
days; and, at every place I stopped, from the Falls of 
St. Anthony to the delta below New Orleans, pilots, mud 
clerks, stevedores, field Negroes, householders and loafers 
alike answered my questions enthusiastically and revealed 
the important part the river plays in their lives. 

To Paul, Ethel and Bart Mueller, F. D. Knapp, and my 
wife, I owe a special kind of gratitude for the many in' 
dispensable kindnesses and aids that made it possible for 
this book to be written, and made the writing a thoroughly 
pleasant experience. 


Minneapolis, Minnesota 


LEWIS S. MINER 



















































“You’re from the Marine Brigade?” 





Chapter I 

OFF FOR ST. LOUIS 


T HE fading spring twilight enveloped the 
Cotton Belle as she chuffed upriver away from 
the levee at Quincy. Reluctantly, Bill Wingate 
and his father rose from the crate on which they had 
been sitting and began to thread their way among 
piles of freight up toward town. 

The boy, tall for his fifteen years, held back re¬ 
spectfully for the man whose thin, sallow face bore 
out the weakness of a slender frame. One block up 
the steep road they stopped for Jack Wingate to 
rest. As they looked back at the full, rushing river, 


19 










20 


Pilot on the River 


throwing back last flashes of soft red, the man rested 
a thin hand on the boy’s firm shoulder. 

“I hate to see you go, Son,” he spoke slowly in 
brittle Yankee. 

Before Bill could answer, a tall spare Negro shot 
from behind a sugar barrel his eyes popping as he 
shouted, “Oh, Mistuh Bill! Kin yo’ help me?” 

Bill’s father turned to the frightened darkey, “Calm 
down, Marcellus. What’s the trouble?” 

“Ah—ah shouldn’t bother yo’, suh, but I’se ’fraid 
to go home. Marse Harkness’ll whip me sho’!” 

“What for, Marcellus?” Mr. Wingate did not see 
the guilty look on his son’s face. 

“It wasn’t all Marcellus’ fault, Dad,” he Broke in. 
“We were fishing over on the Missouri side. The 
fish were biting, and I guess we just got back too 
late.” 

“Didn’t you know Marcellus was supposed to be 
doing his work up at Judge Harkness’ instead of 
fishing with you?” he demanded severely of Bill. 

“Yes, sir. But it was mighty nice on the river and 
Marcellus had Judge Harkness’ skiff.” 

Bill could see his father understood how he felt 
but still realized he had done wrong. 

“Come,” Mr. Wingate went on, “we’ll go and see 
Judge Harkness. I’ll try to put up a good argument 



Off for St. holds 


21 


as attorney for the defense even though you two 
should be ashamed of yourselves.” 

As the Judge’s name was mentioned Marcellus 
shuddered, but gulped out, “Yas, suh,” and followed 
along meekly. 

Jack Wingate marched straight up the front walk 
and rattled the knocker when they reached the 
Judge’s large, square white house standing back from 
a black iron fence. Bill and Marcellus stood behind 
him, both fearing the Judge. 

“Good evening,” Mr. Wingate bowed to the portly 
figure of Judge Harkness as he came at the summons 
of his servant. 

“Ah, good evening, Mr. Wingate. And what can 
I do for you? I trust the spring is bringing you a 
good business?” 

“Very satisfactory, Judge, but I came about a small 
matter of discipline. It seems that my son was fish' 
ing with your Marcellus here when Marcellus was 
supposed to be working. Since it was at least partly 
Bill’s fault, I felt it was fair to come up and explain.” 

At that moment, Judge Harkness spied the Negro 
behind Jack and Bill Wingate. With surprising 
speed he snatched the slave’s arm, jerked him roughly 
onto the threshold, cuffed him brutally across the 
face with the back of his hand. 



22 


Pilot on the River 


“Your Bill’s fault, huh?’’ he snarled. “I’ll wager 
this ungrateful loafer told him to tell that story. The 
good'fonnothing!” 

Mr. Wingate’s voice took on a hard edge. “1 
walked up here purposely to avoid Marcellus’ being 
punished too severely for something that was partly 
my son’s fault.” 

The Judge drew himself up haughtily, glared at 
Jack Wingate. “I’ll treat this scoundrel as I please 
without your suggestions, sir,” he bellowed. “I’ve 
stood enough from him. Family or no family, I’m 
going to sell him down the river.” 

The agony in Marcellus’ eyes cut Bill deeply as 
Judge Harkness yanked the Negro into the hallway 
and slammed the door in their faces. 

“Will he really sell Marcellus downriver away 
from his family?” Bill asked miserably as they started 
home. 

“I’m afraid it’s very likely. That,” Jack Wingate 
went on thoughtfully, “is the kind of man that makes 
slavery a cruel, inhuman institution. Something is 
going to come of such situations. And before long, 
too.” 

Those words still ran through Bill’s mind as they 
rounded the comer and turned into a doorway be' 
side a frame store marked in fading whitewash: 



Off for St. Louis 


23 


jack wingate—gen'l mdse. He hurried upstairs and 
lit a candle in the tiny, neat front room. Then he 
returned to follow his father back through the 
kitchen into the bedroom whose open window sil- 
houetted the flickering riding light of the ferryboat. 

The boy threw himself down on the rope-bottom 
bed along the wall on his side of the square, low- 
ceilinged room. He quickly pushed a bright green- 
and-red carpet bag onto the floor. But he could con¬ 
tain himself no longer as he looked up at his father: 

“I can hardly wait, Dad,” he began excitedly, then 
broke off as his father pointed to his own bed. 

There lay a new outfit of navy blue serge, com¬ 
plete even to black-visored cap, shining black leather 
shoes and white linen shirt. 

Bill could hardly believe his eyes. People from 
St. Louis, sometimes the Mayor and the Judge in 
Quincy wore clothes like that, but never the son of 
a river-front merchant. Gaily he clapped on the cap 
and ran his fingers over the short jacket. 

“Oh, Dad!” his brown eyes gleamed. “You 
shouldn’t have done all this for me!” 

Pleasure lit up Jack Wingate’s lean face. “Can’t 
expect a young man to ride on the river in linsey- 
woolsey breeches, can you?” 

It all seemed like a dream to Bill, more like his 



24 


Pilot on the River 


imaginings than reality could possibly be. He gazed 
gratefully at his father. 

“And you do this when I’m going away and leav- 
ing you alone?” Bill asked. “You shouldn’t—•” 

Grinning, Jack cut the boy off with a wave of his 
hand. “Forget it, Son. I wish I could do more.” 

Bill tried to protest, but Jack Wingate only shook 
his head with finality and began to prepare for bed. 

After the candle was out, Bill lay staring up at the 
moonlit ceiling, his mind much too full for sleep. 
St. Louis. Capt. Horace Merriman and a berth on 
the Magnolia. New clothes. The sadness of leaving 
his dad and his friends in Quincy, the joy of become 
ing a steamboatman, of spending his life on the river 
instead of in a small-town store. It all merged into 
a happy blur as the deep whistle of a passing packet 
floated up softly from far out in the channel. 

Faint dawn next morning found Bill tumbling out 
onto the rough floor, diving into the new blouse and 
trousers after a splash at the washstand, quickly, but 
neatly packing his carpetbag. A hurried breakfast, 
and he was down in the store to join Yankee Jack, 
his father’s nickname. 

Shrill and powerful, a whistle sounded from the 
levee. The River Queen. Bill rushed to his father, 
already at his high desk. 



Off for St. Louis 


25 


“Time to go now,” he cried. “That’s the Queen?' 

Yankee Jack slid carefully off the stool, extended 
his right hand and thrust a banknote into Bill’s pocket 
with his left. 

“Good luck, boy,” he said simply. “Might write 
me a card when you get to St. Louis and meet Capt. 
Merriman.” 

“Good'bye, Dad,” Bill tried to keep his voice 
steady, his handshake firm. “I’ll write you all the 
news.” 

For a moment father and son stood motionless. 
Then Yankee Jack Wingate spun the boy around by 
the shoulders and playfully pushed him forward. 

“Hurry along, fellow,” he laughed, “or you’ll miss 
the boat.” 

Bill stepped into the doorway, seized his carpet 
bag and was off toward the levee. 

Familiar sights thrilled him now as never before. 
He paused at the top of the levee. The Queen 
sparkled white in warm sunlight, stacks pounding out 
great rings of pitch black smoke, escape pipes hissing 
with released steam. 

Rousters trotted up and down the swaying plank 
from bank to forecastle, loading and unloading many' 
sized bales and boxes. Draymen and farmers rattled 
over cobblestones with last minute consignments. 



26 


Pilot on the River 


The mate flogged all along with biting tongue and 
harsh flaying words. 

Above, the captain, megaphone in hand and ready 
for the departure, watched the scene with the same 
pride as the townspeople that were clogging up 
traffic. Serene in the glass palace, crowned with 
carved scrollwork and gilt, the pilot, stovepipe hat 
resting jauntily over one eye, surveyed the scene with 
scornful tolerance. 

But Bill paused only briefly. No longer would he 
be watching all this from a levee. Perhaps he would 
be sitting up on that high bench behind a pilot— 
or at least be waiting in the doorway of the office 
where the mud clerk even now held out the folding 
slate that was the Queen’s register. 

“Bill Wingate! Where’re you headed for?” 

Bill tapped a friendly punch to the quill’s ribs. 
“Jerry Baxter! When did you come onto this line?” 

“My first trip,” he announced proudly. “I’m tak- 
ing over as first clerk when we touch St. Louis. But 
where did all those fine clothes come from? We 
never had anything like that when I lived in Quincy.” 

Bill couldn’t help puffing out his chest a trifle. “Go¬ 
ing to St. Louis to ship with Capt. Horace Merri- 

man on the Magnolia. Dad used to know him on the 
river.” 



Off for St. Lotus 


27 


“Well, aren’t you lucky. Starting out on the 
Magnolia steamboatin’ like a nabob. Cub pilot, I 
suppose.” 

Bill nodded modestly. “I hope so.” 

“If that doesn’t beat all—” 

A portly banker and his family arrived just then, 
and as Bill stepped to one side, Jerry became the per¬ 
fect clerk with his “Yes, sir,” and “Mighty pleased 
to have you, sir.” 

Then a Negro came to get their bags, and Jerry 
pointed to Bill’s luggage. “Take that up to my cabin 
on the texas, Ike.” 

Bill waved a hand, then moved to the forward 
guard to watch the last lines being cast off. Soon 
the Queen was backing into the current and setting 
her stemwheel ahead into the wide, swift-moving 
stream. 

At last I’m started, Bill mused happily. His mus¬ 
cles tightened sadly as he watched Quincy and the 
Illinois bank grow smaller, but he turned his mind 
toward St. Louis. He’d won his fight to go. Now 
his job was to prove that he could be more useful 
to his father on the river than in the store at home. 

After a gay, generous dinner as Jerry’s guest. Bill 
mounted to the hurricane deck. A worried glance 
at the sun reassured him that they still had plenty 



28 


Pilot on the River 


of time to get down to St. Louis before five o’clock 
when the Magnolia was scheduled to start down 
river. In fact, Capt. Walters of the Queen guaran- 
teed connections with all the evening boats out of 
the city. 

Then, on his right, Bill spied a great stream pour¬ 
ing into the river, churning brown water, meeting 
the bluer Mississippi, the colors running parallel so 
that there was brown on his right and blue on his 
left. It was the wide Missouri, that connected the 
rapidly growing West with its base in the East. 

Jerry, arriving at a trot, panted before him. 

“Have to get back pretty soon to get ready for 
landing. That’s the Missouri, you know.’’ 

Bill nodded. “Thanks for everything, Jerry.” 

“Glad to. You’ll find the Magnolia on the down¬ 
river end of the line. Cotton bale between her stacks. 
Easy to find.” He turned and hurried toward the lar¬ 
board companionway. “Good luck,” he tossed over 
his shoulder. 

Bill smiled at the hurrying lad who had only a 
year before been the laziest boy in school. Steam- 
boatin’ changed people, he thought, getting his bag 
and trying to calm his excitement by stretching out 
in a rocking chair. 

Then, behind the bend ahead, he could see a heavy 



Off for St. Louis 


29 


cloud of black smoke. A few minutes more, and he 
could make out towering black chimneys. 

He shot to his feet, strained his eyes as they crossed 
the river to avoid a long towhead. As if drawing 
away a curtain, the Queen swept past the screen of 
willows that covered the towhead and revealed the 
glittering scene of the St. Louis levee. 

White paint, gleaming bronze and gilt, dancing, 
puffing steam, wide rows of brick buildings, gay cos' 
tumes—all flashed before Bill’s eyes with a brilliance, 
a gripping excitement he would never forget. Who 
could ask for more than to be an important man in 
a glorious world like this one that lay ahead? 

Bill’s happiness was complete as the Queen ran past 
the long line to her berth. For he had already seen 
the long, gleaming side'wheeler. There she was, the 
name Magnolia painted on her paddle boxes atop a 
six'foot picture of the flower, sparkling in fresh green, 
cream and yellow. 










Chapter II 
A NEW VISTA 

Never in his life had Bill Wingate seen so many 
steamboats, so many people, such tall buildings, such 
a mad scramble and haste. 

The levee and its solid-packed line of steamboats 
stretched for blocks. Long, powerful, shallow-draft 
stem-wheelers were already swarming with men, 
women, children, household goods, domestic animals, 
even birds in cages; all headed for the new lands of 
the West up the Missouri. Gay, hoopskirted ladies, 
mitted fingers resting on elegantly-clad arms of gal¬ 
lant Southern planters—ascended gangplanks. The 


30 


A New Vista 


3i 


ladies were met with an effusive courtesy from cap- 
tains and clerks that would continue until the fleet 
side-wheelers made special landings at downriver 
plantations. Negroes shuffled everywhere, toting 
freight onto shabby, dinky steamers that would inch 
up winding tributary streams, bearing merchandise 
and news from the outside world. 

Bill’s mind flashed back to the faded atlas in his 
Quincy schoolroom. Those wriggling lines represent¬ 
ing rivers and the descriptions of commerce at St. 
Louis meant something to him now. For here was 
the end of the line for the boats plying upriver to 
faraway St. Paul, bringing lead from Galena and 
Dubuque, farm products from Iowa and Illinois, 
sometimes furs from icy Minnesota. Here at St. Louis 
foreign goods from the whole world arrived from the 
port of New Orleans. Even railroads were realizing 
the importance of this booming city’s location. Now, 
seeing it before his own eyes, Bill could understand 
why. 

It was a long walk back from the Queen’s berth 
to the plank of the Magnolia, but Bill enjoyed every 
foot of it. He felt like a king as he set foot on the 
gleaming red paint of her gangway. Proudly he 
mounted the forecastle. A heavy-set, grey-haired 
gentleman, high hat in hand, mopped a wide brow 



SL 


Pilot on the River 


with a fine linen handkerchief and rumbled instruc' 
tions to the mate. Bill waited respectfully until the 
mate returned to the crew, then spoke: 

“Capt. Horace Merriman?” he asked. 

A smile of welcome arched across the wide, 
weather'tanned face. 

“Yes, Son. And what can I do for you?” 

“My name is William Wingate. From Quincy, 
Illinois. I think you know my father. They called 
him Yankee Jack Wingate when he was on the river.” 

“Yankee Jack? And you’re his son?” 

Bill nodded anxiously. What if Capt. Merriman 
wouldn’t remember? “You knew him, didn’t you?” 

Suddenly the strong arms clasped him around his 
shoulders. “Know him? Know him? Why bless 
you, yes. We were shipmates once, years ago! And 
I was captain on his Faith A. Wingate before she 
was lost.” 

Bill’s heart warmed to this hearty man who forgot 
his dignity right in front of all his passengers. 

“Dad thought you might be able to start me out 
on your boat. I want to be a pilot.” 

“Just like your dad, eh? Hankering for the river. 
How is he?” 

“Better than he was, sir. But I reckon he’ll never 
be any too strong.” 




“Capt. Horace Merriman?” he as\ed 












<r 












A New Vista 


35 


“At least he’s better. That’s something if—But 
here now,’’ the captain interrupted himself. “We 
can’t stand here talking with the boat due to leave 
any minute. We can talk later.’’ 

“Of course, sir,” Bill returned although he did 
want to have Capt. Merriman come to some decision 
about him before he shipped on the Magnolia. 

“Isaiah!” the captain suddenly bellowed with a 
voice like the roar of an angry bull. “Isaiah! You 
lazy dog. Pick up this young gentleman’s bag,” he 
called to a tall, pitch-black Negro shuffling gracefully 
around the capstan. “Put him up on the texas in 
with Jo Hartley. And have Jo come up to his cabin 
at eight right after his watch.” 

“Yassuh. This way, suh.” 

Bill started to follow, but the captain stopped them 
for a moment. “Jo’ll take care of you. He’s about 
your age. A second engineer. Son of a friend of 
mine in Memphis. Then you and I will have a talk 
in the morning. We’ll figure out something.” 

“Thank you, sir. At your cabin?” 

“At my cabin. And have Isaiah fix it up with the 
clerk so that you have a place at table for the meal 
tonight.” 

With a wave the captain turned to greet a pros¬ 
perous-looking couple who were trailed by two male 



36 


Pilot on the River 


and one female slaves tottering under the load of 
packages, bags, and hatboxes. 

The cabin was like a dream come true. Spotless 
white woodwork and double-deck bunks with fresh 
linen and with a neat washstand on one wall; a com¬ 
pact chest and small chair flanking the other. Even 
a small rug on the floor and a tiny writing table and 
chair fitted into the snug room. 

Brush and comb, razor and a tintype, neatly ar¬ 
ranged atop the chest, were the only signs that the 
room was occupied, plus a pair of slippers tucked un¬ 
der the lower bunk. And half of this was his! Bill 
forgot Isaiah altogether until turning shamefacedly, 
he saw the Negro had already disappeared. 

Sliding his bag into a comer, Bill clambered into 
the upper bunk and sank happily into the blankets. 
It was the softest bed he had ever tried, and this, 
the nicest room he had ever seen. Compared with 
the dull, creaking walls of the home over Yankee Jack 
Wingate’s store, this little space represented the 
height of luxury. It even outshone Jerry’s cabin on 
the River Queen. 

But Bill could not stay quiet for long. After tidy¬ 
ing up quickly, he hurried below to the mailbag with 
a hastily written note to his father, than found a spot 
near the bow on the hurricane deck. Already Capt. 



A New Vista 


37 


Merriman had mounted the roof with his megaphone 
and begun to direct the mate and the pilot. Stem 
lines, breast lines, finally all but one head line were 
cast off. Both paddle wheels turned over slowly, 
slithering a slight wash up the levee. Last minute 
arrivals hurried up the plank until, at last, the runners 
signalled all their prospects were aboard. 

The last heavy line came over the bow with the 
stage. A chord from the strangest, most attractive 
whistle Bill had ever heard, and the Magnolias wheels 
began to inch her slowly astern. Deft, swift, chanting 
rhythmically under the torch of the mate’s vocabu- 
lary, black rousters made fast the stage and leaned 
panting against the capstan. Another blast from the 
whistle set off a burst of rich song from Negro throats. 
The Farewell Song, echoing, mingling with farewell 
songs of other departing steamers, brought cabin and 
deck passengers alike to the rail, waving. Some even 
joined in the infectious tune. Bill found himself sing¬ 
ing, then letting his voice fade away as they came 
around and slipped down the broad river. For a mo¬ 
ment the passengers lingered, then broke into chat¬ 
tering groups as they made for the immaculate din¬ 
ing tables and the heavy, abundant food. 

Through the evening feast, Bill Wingate watched, 
almost too amazed to eat. A clerk and a tall, strik- 



38 


Pilot on the River 


ingly'dark young cub pilot welcomed him at the table, 
but Bill’s mind could not rest on conversation that 
night. Giant crystal chandeliers, flooding the long 
cabin with soft light, advanced in an apparently end' 
less row from stem to stem. Thick, flowered carpet' 
ing moved from the bow end of the room down 
through the slow curve of the floor to the rise of 
the overhang, placing the diners fore and aft higher 
than those amidships. Bill mentally compared this 
arc with the fleet, graceful lines of the Magnolia’s 
outer guards. 

Countless courses, rich with sweets and hotbreads, 
all fascinating to a northern boy, appeared like magic 
on the arms of swift, white'jacketed waiters. A string 
band blended into strange chords with the steady 
roar of voices. Only after Bill came back to his chair 
on the hurricane and felt the evening breeze whip' 
ping through his hair could he convince himself all 
this was real. 

As it grew darker, as the Magnolia slid past bluffs 
and the twinkling lights of tiny settlements, Bill’s 
mind drifted back over the events of the day. At 
sunrise he had been saying good'bye to his father 
in Quincy. Now he was already many miles below 
St. Louis. Next morning they would be in Cairo, 
then in Memphis and finally in New Orleans. Each 



A New Vista 


39 


hour was taking him farther away from Quincy. 
Every minute so far had brought its own thrill, but 
what about the future? What if Capt. Merriman 
couldn’t find him a place as a cub? 

The boy shivered a little as he tried to drive these 
thoughts from his mind. Determinedly he straight' 
ened his shoulders and paced off toward his cabin. 

“Just a minute,’’ a voice rumbled out behind him. 

Bill wheeled in surprise, expecting he had been 
accosted by at least the first mate. 

“Aren’t you William Wingate, the new man on 
the boat?” 

Bill peered through the darkness. All he could 
see was a chunky, chestnut-haired boy about his own 
age. But, strangely, the barrel-like voice issued from 
that short figure. 

“Capt. Merriman requested that I meet you. My 
name is Hartley, Josiah Hartley of Memphis, Ten¬ 
nessee, second engineer.” 

Bill accepted the cordial handshake. “It’s a pleas¬ 
ure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Hartley. I’m 
from Quincy, Illinois. I hope to become a cub pilot 
on this boat.” 

Hartley nodded, then grinned. “And pretty soon 
I’ll be taking orders from you, then. That’s all pilots 
are for—to make an engineer’s life miserable.” 



4 o 


Pilot on the River 


At a loss for a reply to this sudden change from 
dignity to banter. Bill said nothing. Hartley took 
him by the arm. “Let’s sit down here and talk it 
over. If we’re going to bunk together, we might as 
well get acquainted. They call me Jo, and I suppose 
you’re Bill.” 

“Yes, when they don’t call me Will. Which I 
don’t like at all.” 

For an hour they talked. Bill felt himself warm' 
ing to this chubby, sunny lad who enjoyed his life 
down in the grease and filth of the engines and fur' 
naces. The two of them seemed to hit it off per' 
fectly. Soon Bill knew all about Jo’s school com' 
panions in Memphis, the dance given for his sister 
at the Gayoso Hotel, even about the golden'haired 
Melissa up on Poplar Avenue whose eyes were as 
blue as Lake Pontchartrain on a sunny May day. 

In return came stories of Quincy and Yankee Jack, 
and Bill at last spoke of his mother. 

“Do you remember her?” Jo asked sympathetically. 

“No. I wish I could. It all happened in a steam' 
boat explosion. Above New Orleans, when I was 
only a few months old. Dad has told me about it 
lots of times.” 

“That wasn’t the explosion of the Faith A. Win¬ 
gate?" 



A New Vista 


4i 


Bill nodded silently. 

“You still hear about that night,” Jo went on. 
“Your mother and father showed everybody that 
couldn’t get into the yawl how to take ofF cabin doors 
and keep themselves afloat until they could be picked 
up. Your father and mother were ready to leave 
when the boat snagged and turned over. Mr. Wingate 
got you ashore, but Mrs. Wingate was drowned.” 

“And besides having his back hurt bringing me 
in, Dad lost almost all his money when the Faith 
went down. It was the boat’s first trip—fourteen 
years ago—and Dad’s been tied to a riverfront store 
ever since.” 

“Hard going,” Jo agreed, gravely. 

“But it’s not going to be,” Bill now was on his 
feet facing Jo, jaw square, new authority in his voice. 
“That’s why I came onto the river. Dad ought to 
be out of that town, running a boat of his own with 
me to help him!” 

“But how?” 

“How? By making money. Two hundred and 
fifty a month as a pilot, and saving most of it. He’ll 
never make any money at the store, and he’s not 
healthy enough to come back to any hard work on 
the river. It’s up to me to do it for him.” 

“You make it sound simple, but don’t fool your- 



42 


Pilot on the River 


self. It won’t be simple. At least not as much so as 
you think.” 

“I know it’s not going to be easy, Jo,” Bill uv 
sisted. “But if I work hard and save, I don’t see what 
can stop me.” 

“Lots of things. There’s a plenty of people in both 
the North and the South that think all these argU' 
ments between the two sections are going to spoil 
everything, including the steamboat business. And 
the Pilot’s Association may wreck the piloting game 
yet, even though it’s helped it so far by putting up 
wages and all.” 

“I shouldn’t have to worry about the Association. 
And I can’t see how all this argument about slavery 
and new territories is going to affect business on the 
river any.” 

“You just wait,” Jo’s voice lowered ominously. 
“After you’ve been around steamboats for a couple 
of years the way I have, you’ll have heard plenty 
from passengers and crews and from people on shore. 
Things aren’t as pretty as they seem. Look at all the 
people up East that are shipping fugitive slaves from 
farm to farm ’way up into Canada on that Under' 
ground Railroad business. The South doesn’t like 
that a bit.” 

“I know,” Bill admitted. “We’ve hidden escaped 



A New Vista 


43 


slaves up around Quincy. But that isn’t going to stop 
me. Dad’s got to have a new start, and I’m going 
to get it for him.” Now Bill’s voice took on that 
hard, determined tone. “Nothing can stop me!” 






Chapter III 
MR. LEXINGTON 

Bill, drifting off to sleep that night to the easy 
movement of the Magnolia, knew he had a friend. 

When he called upon Capt. Merriman next mom' 
ing, his hopes rose higher still. The captain’s Negro 
steward was just helping the captain into his long, 
tailored coat. 

“Sorry I didn’t have more time to talk to you yes- 
terday. Son,” the master greeted. “I’ve got too much 
work for three men. Welcoming important passen- 
gers, entertaining shippers, seeing that our schedule 
is kept up, trying to make this boat show a profit— 
I hardly have time to sleep or eat.” 


44 


Mr. Lexington 


45 


Bill remembered the luxurious meal Merriman had 
surrounded the evening before but made no com¬ 
ment. 

“And I talked last night with Andrew Lexington 
—he’s one of our pilots—” abruptly he turned to 
the Negro. “Saul! My hat and gloves! What’s keep¬ 
ing you?” 

Grinning widely, the darkey stepped out of the 
wardrobe with the stovepipe hat and kid gloves. 
“Jus’ a-polishin’ them, Cap’n.” Bill moved restlessly 
in his chair. What had Andrew Lexington told Capt. 
Merriman? 

“As I was saying,” the officer went on calmly, 
“I was speaking with Mr. Lexington last night. He 
has no cub under training and might consider taking 
one. Though he said he’d have to see you first. He 
knew your father, but making a pilot is no easy job, 
you know.” 

It seemed strange that the captain would have 
to consider so respectfully the wishes of a man in 
his employ, but Bill remembered how Jo had told 
him good pilots were scarce and had to be treated 
with proper respect. 

“I understand, sir,” Bill put in. “But what sort 
of an arrangement should I suggest to him when we 
talk?” 



46 


Pilot on the River 


“It’s customary, when a youngster approved by a 
pilot for training doesn’t have an over-supply of 
banknotes, for the boy to offer four or five hundred 
dollars for the training, to be paid out of his first 
wages earned as a licensed pilot.” 

Without waiting for an answer, Capt. Merriman 
opened the cabin door, tilted his high hat a little to 
starboard and signalled for Bill to follow him. 

Their stroll aft along the hurricane deck took on 
the appearance of a royal procession. The shining 
Merriman beaver swung down again and again in 
return to greetings from gaily clad young ladies 
promenading arm-in-arm under frilly parasols. Mem¬ 
bers of the crew supplied their brisk “Good morning, 
sir.” The Negro texas tender, dancing down the lad¬ 
der from the pilothouse balancing half a dozen empty 
coffee cups, grinned until the comers of his wide 
mouth seemed to meet the curly wool above his ears. 

Bill’s eyes darted about the spacious glass house. 
Windows all around. High bench astern flanking 
speaking tube and bell pulls for starboard and lar¬ 
board engines. Gleaming oilcloth on the floor. High 
wheel of beautifully polished wood and brass, stand¬ 
ing almost as tall as the elegant figure whose glisten¬ 
ing boot rested easily on a lower spoke. Astern, a 
stove enclosed in a metal closet. 



Mr. Lexington 


47 


The Magnolia sailed majestically, easily down the 
center of the full river, beyond need of any work 
by her pilot, but Andrew Lexington’s grey topper 
did not turn. Capt. Merriman did not interrupt. 

Almost a minute passed before Lexington lazily 
swung partially around and looked at his visitors. 

Elegance spoke out from the crisp ruffles of Am 
drew Lexington’s shirt bosom to the sleek cut of 
trousers and tailed coat. The glance of cold, blue 
eyes, the set of thin lips and patrician nose, framed 
in shining black hair and sideburns revealed a man 
accepted by the world as an aristocrat. 

Before Lexington spoke, Bill wondered how he, 
a small-town landsman, could ever earn a place under 
this haughty figure in whose slender hands rested 
the Magnolia and the lives and property aboard her. 
The suit of which he had been so proud in Quincy 
now seemed rough, loutish. 

“What is your pleasure this morning. Captain?” 
Lexington at last remarked, in a calm, almost insolent, 
tone. 

“This is the boy I spoke to you about last night, 
Mr. Lexington. William Wingate. Yankee Jack 
Wingate’s son.” 

Bill felt like taking to his heels as the cold blue 
eyes raked him from cap to shoe, slowly, scornfully. 



Pilot on the River 


The captain broke in hurriedly. “I must be getting 
below.” Then softly to Bill, “There’re other jobs on 
this boat beside piloting.” A guilty look over his 
shoulder at Lexington, and he was gone. 

“Where are you from?” The pilot’s face still did 
not change its distant expression. 

“Quincy, Illinois, sir.” 

“And you expect to learn the river from me?” 

“I thought I could be of help to you after the 
first few months. And I’ll pay you five hundred 
dollars out of my first wages as a pilot.” 

“Meaning that I wait a year at least for the five 
hundred?” 

“I’m—I’m afraid so, sir,” Bill hopelessly replied. 

Another long look from the cold eyes. Then with 
sudden, surprising brusqueness: 

“Take this wheel! Keep her on that woodpile on 
the right bank.” 

Fearfully Bill gripped the smooth spokes, feeling 
those penetrating eyes boring through his back. 
Never before had he turned a wheel. The safety of 
thousands of dollars worth of steamboat, scores of 
crew and passengers lay under his fingers. Yet Bill 
had grown up on the river, felt the Mississippi seep 
into his very blood. He knew what this r ushin g 
yellow channel could do to a boat—and to a boat- 



Mr. Lexington 


49 


man who defied it. So, concentrating on this new 
struggle with the river, he forgot his fear of Andrew 
Lexington. 

Bill did not wrench at the wheel, tensely fight the 
line of the current. Instead he left the Magnolia in 
her marks; then eased her gently to larboard, pulling 
down a spoke lightly, to meet the force of an eddy 
against her bow; then back a spoke or two as the 
pressure of the eddy passed. Why, the feel of this 
wheel was hardly different from the feel of a tiller 
on a skiff! 

The Magnolia had not slipped from Bill’s touch, 
had hardly left a straight course as she came within 
a hundred yards of the towhead. Bill did not change 
the course, even though they seemed destined to 
sail straight through the clump of willows ahead. 
Fear shot through him again as the trees drew closer 
and closer. 

“I’ll take it now,’’ Lexington finally broke in. “We 
cross here.” 

The pilot’s crossing to the other bank was deft, 
effortless, beautiful to watch. Soon they were charg' 
ing down the middle of the river again, and Lexing' 
ton turned to Bill. 

“If you’ll promise to stay with me until you get 
your license, I’ll agree to make you ready for it. But 



5 ° 


Pilot on the River 


I won’t stand for pounding the river into your head 
and then having you sneak out just when you’re 
some good as a steersman. And forget the money.” 

“I promise to stay. But the money—” 

“Forget the money!” The flat voice now snapped 
out like a lash. “And don’t get the idea you’re a 
pilot already, just because you didn’t fetch her up 
in a cornfield!” 

“But, Mr. Lex—” Bill tried to put in. 

“Quiet! Now go down and get that buck'toothed 
black up here with some more coffee. And a stogie. 
And don’t forget to come back yourself. You start 
right now.” 

Shakily wiping the perspiration from his forehead, 
Bill rushed below to the galley aft on the main deck, 
passing the boilers and engines on the way. Quickly 
he made arrangements to have coffee and a cigar 
sent up to the pilothouse and started back above 
more slowly. From the engines came a hail: 

“What’s the hurry, Mr. Wingate?” 

The voice sounded like Jo Hartley’s barrel bass. 
A greasy, round figure waved from the starboard 
throttle. “Are you a pilot now?” Jo went on. 

Bill nodded. “Have to hurry.” 

“If you expect to stay healthy, it might be wise,” 
Jo advised. 



Mr. Lexington 


5i 


A sudden jangling of bells put Jo to work on his 
throttle, and Bill hurried for the hurricane. On the 
forecastle companionway, Capt. Merriman stopped 
him. 

“All right with Lexington?” he inquired anxiously. 

“Fine, Captain. And I want to thank you.” 

“Don’t let that temper of his bother you. It doesn’t 
mean much, and he’s one of the best pilots on the 
river.” 

“I’ll do my best, sir.” 

“That’s the ticket. Now get above before he bursts 
a cylinder.” 






Chapter IV 

BILL STANDS HIS FIRST WATCH 


Still groggy from his mere four hours of sleep. 
Bill stumbled up to the pilothouse for his first night 
watch. It lacked five minutes of midnight, and Pilot 
Lemuel Birch with his cub Daniel Fotheringham 
were finishing out their watch. 

Bill had begun to doze when his chief stepped 
lightly through the doorway and took over the 
wheel without a word of greeting. Already young 
Wingate had learned Lexington’s scorn of Birch’s 
careless dress and his tender handling of the purse' 


52 









Bill Stands His First Watch 


53 


proud Daniel Fotheringham. The pilot at the wheel 
did not turn or speak when Birch mumbled the 
captain’s orders. 

“We land at Warner’s woodyard. About five miles 
above it now.” 

But, before Birch had spoken, Lexington seemed 
to know their position, at least he steered the Mag > 
nolia as if it were daylight instead of total darkness. 

The whole valley up to the treetops was a solid 
chunk of blackness. No stars or moon penetrated 
the sky or picked up the high, wooded bluffs. Not 
a light was visible from the pilothouse, and the pilot 
seemed to steer from instinct rather than from what 
he could see. 

Only minutes of peering outside accustomed Bill’s 
eyes to the darkness and made it possible for him 
to find the outlines of the Magnolia and the shape 
of the river. The shape of the river was about all 
he could see, that and a black ball mounted on the 
jackstaff. He noted that his chief raised or lowered 
this ball on the pole by means of a rope running back 
to the pilothouse, but he dared not ask its purpose. 

Then, mysteriously, the boat pulled over to the 
darker line that was the left bank, and the pilot 
jangled both bell pulls for half speed. As the wheels 
slowed, an overhanging cottonwood limb brushed 



54 


Pilot on the River 


across the Magnolias upper guards. Bells again and 
the wheels slowed, then stopped. Capt. Merriman’s 
voice rose from the bow: 

“Now get that wood aboard. Smartly now!” 

Rousters and firemen, deck passengers, who earned 
part of their passage in this way, scurried ashore, and 
the thumping of four-foot chunks grew into a roar. 
Surprisingly soon, the Magnolia again rode full speed 
down the channel. 

An amazed Bill stood behind Lexington as the 
latter settled into his usual easy stance at the wheel. 

“How do you do it?” Bill couldn’t help asking. 

“Do what?” 

“Keep in the channel. And land at a woodyard 
when it’s this dark.” 

“Don’t you approve of my piloting?” Lexington 
reached for the gold toothpick on his watch chain. 

“Of course. I’m—I’m just wondering how it’s 
done. Will I ever be able to learn?” 

The pilot’s voice hardened. “You’ll learn if I have 
to take it out of your hide! You’ll know every wood- 
yard and every half-submerged island, every towhead 
and every wreck in fifteen hundred miles of river.” 

Bill looked puzzled. He wanted to know all the se 
things, but he still didn’t see how knowing them 
would help him to see in the dark, and said so. 




An amazed Bill stood behind Lexington 

















































Bill Stands His First Watch 


57 


“You don’t have to see much. Not if you know, 
almost feel, the things you should. Take this wheel, 
and I’ll show you.’’ 

The pilot stood aside as Bill grasped the spokes. 
“Now keep her jackstaff on that spike of dead tree 
right ahead. And the stem on that dip in the trees 
on the other bank. When the tip of the tree dis¬ 
appears behind the ball on the jackstaff, fetch her 
to starboard quick and head right downstream with 
the stem still on the dip behind you. Then I’ll take 
her.’’ 

Carefully Bill began to do as he was told. Squint¬ 
ing at the black ball as it stood silhouetted against 
the lighter sky, he waited tensely until it seemed to 
eclipse the peak of the dead tree, then spun the 
wheel briskly to starboard. Before he could speak, 
he was pushed bodily from the wheel, his chief 
shouting: 

“Snatch her! Larboard. Quick, you dunderhead!” 
At the same time he jingled the engineer to back the 
larboard wheel, come full ahead on the starboard. 

Frantically Bill helped Lexington pull her up un¬ 
til the pilot thrust him away. He retired to the high 
bench to wait for his tongue-lashing. Strangely none 
came, only silence, silence that Bill could stand no 
longer. 



58 


Pilot on the River 


“What—what did I do wrong?” he asked in a 
low voice. 

“Couldn’t you see the black ball? Didn’t I tell you 
to wait until it covered up that spike of tree?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Then any cloth'head but you could have done it 
right. If this hadn’t been a full river, we’d stuck up 
on that towhead to starboard and laid there till 
doomsday. You brought her around too soon. I 
doubt if you’ll ever learn the river.” 

Bill made no defense. His hopes of becoming a 
pilot and earning money to buy a steamboat faded. 
He was a thoroughly discouraged boy. Lexington’s 
silence that continued for another hour made matters 
no better. 

Finally the chief spoke, and this time most of the 
anger had disappeared from his voice. 

“Do you still think you carried out my orders 
when you had the wheel back there?” 

“I don’t know.” Bill was completely bewildered 
by this new attitude. 

“Well, you should know because you did carry 
out my orders to the letter. But you remember I 
said you should hnow thoroughly, almost feel, the 
things you should know?” 

“Yes, sir.” 



Bill Stands His First Watch 


59 


‘There’s the difference. I could never tell you, 
until you learn the river, how to run a crossing or 
even a straight channel at night any more than I 
could keep you from tripping over roots by telling 
you the landmarks on a new forest trail at Quincy. 
But, if you knew that trail instinctively, because you 
had used it so often, you wouldn’t trip over any 
roots or stumps. You’d feel inside just how you 
should walk it. Understand?” 

Bill thought of the old winding paths up through 
the bluffs at home. “You mean you have to know 
the river by instinct? So you don’t really have to see 
it?” 

‘That’s the word. Guess schooling has its uses 
after all,” Lexington agreed grudgingly. “You just 
have to jam the marks and points and soundings of 
the Mississippi into your head until it’s fit to explode. 
You’ll be used to the river by then. By that time, 
it’ll all be different.” 

“All different?” 

“That’s what I said. High water changes every¬ 
thing. Cuts whole towns off the river. Moves farms 
from one state to another.” 

“And I have to keep track of that?” Bill began 
to feel a little dizzy with this staggering mass of in¬ 
formation he would have to use—instinctively. 




6 o 


Pilot on the River 


"Then low water changes it all in the other direc- 
tion. You’ll see that in a couple of months. If you 
last that long.” 

Lexington’s last words set Bill fuming with resent' 
ment. “I’ll last. I’ll learn this river or have a brain' 
storm trying.” 

Lexington turned about to regard Bill with an in' 
terested stare. “Fill up that stove,” he said at last. 
“And don’t keep the slide up all night doing it.” 

“Why that slide?” Bill asked after tossing some 
wood into the potbellied stove and lowering the front 
of the metal box in which it was enclosed. 

“If a pilot has any light around him he can’t see 
the water properly. That’s why they have canvas 
over the skylights forward and shield the riding 
lights; and keep the light from the open furnace 
doors bottled up in the fireroom. The ball on the 
jackstaff is black because, if it were white, it wouldn’t 
be darker than the sky. Now get down below and 
raise some coffee.” 

Bill tumbled into his cabin at the end of the watch 
trying to decide whether he’d rather murder Lexing' 
ton on the spot or just give up piloting and be done 
with it. He had not come to a decision during the 
thirty seconds it took him to get undressed and climb 
into his bunk. 



Bill Stands His First Watch 


61 


Before Bill knew it, Jo was pummeling him into 
consciousness. “Hurry, sleepyhead. Let’s get started 
in time to have a real breakfast this morning.” 

As Bill, fresh from a diligent scrubbing, stepped 
out into the brisk morning, that tense four hours in 
the pilothouse after midnight the night before dis¬ 
solved under the sparkling beauty of sunshine on 
water, the smooth progress of the Magnolia along a 
high bank of newly-leafing trees. He drew in a deep 
breath and waved to Jo. “Let’s eat!” he shouted. 

Stretching out in the sun for a few moments be¬ 
fore going on eight o’clock watch, the boys rubbed 
full stomachs contentedly. 

“Old Lexington doesn’t seem to have bothered you 
much so far,” Jo remarked. 

Bill described the events of the midnight hours 
at the wheel. He finished, “It all looks impossible to 
me. But I suppose all I can do is to keep trying.” 

“Don’t worry,” the roaring voice fell to a mere 
rumble. “You just keep your ears open and your 
mouth closed. You can’t expect to learn the river in 
two days. But twelve hours of it every day in the 
pilot-house and more of it every minute that you’re 
not asleep will do the business. Work your hardest 
to remember everything you hear, and at least some 
of it will stick.” 



62 


Pilot on the River 


“I reckon that makes sense.” 

“Of course it does. Take your time. After all you 
have a good many years ahead of you.” 

“But I’m not taking them.” 

“That’s the spirit,” Jo rolled him off the bale of 
cotton on which they lay. “Now let’s get to work.” 

The next few days rushed by, so that Bill could 
jam in only short talks with Jo between watches, 
meals and sleep. Lexington had not eased his tactics. 
Past Memphis’ mountains of cotton, down into the 
plantations of Mississippi, the pilot’s whipping sar- 
casm—but never profanity—had beaten Bill again 
and again from the wheel onto the high bench where 
he had waited unnoticed, like a child sent to stand 
in the comer. 

New piles of cotton weighted the Magnolias hull 
deeper as Bill’s chief rang for full speed below the 
bluffs of Vicksburg. The lad waited to take over 
when bright laughter floated up from the hurricane. 
Lexington heard it too, and his foot went onto the 
wheel as both his fine hands set to smoothing his 
stock, flipping a speck of soot from his sleeve. Capt. 
Merriman escorted two gay young girls up the lad¬ 
der. Booming, pompous, now he was the gracious 
host, not the man who had fled from the pilot after 
asking him to consider Bill as a cub. 



Bill Stands His First Watch 


63 


“And this is the pride of the Magnolia, ladies. 
Mr. Andrew Lexington, the finest, fastest pilot on 
the Mississippi.” 

This time, Lexington turned quickly, bowed 
deeply. 

“The Misses Constance Harrison and Lucy French, 
Mr. Lexington, the lovely daughters of Oaknoll and 
Vista, the noblest of the Southern plantations.” 

“A pleasure,” Lexington bowed deeply again, 
pointed to Bill. “And this my steersman, Mr. Wil¬ 
liam Wingate.” 

“Aren’t they both nice, Constance? But they 
couldn’t be as nice as Capt. Merriman. No, suh,” 
the shorter of the two girls giggled infectiously. 

Her companion smiled, with a grace and quiet that 
matched perfectly her deep brown eyes and hair, her 
leisurely, yet decisive carriage. To Bill that smile 
spoke volumes more than the chatter of the doll-like, 
blue-eyed Lucy. 

“We think it’s wonderful the way you can go 
back and forth from St. Louis to New Orleans so 
fast.” 

“We’re proud of that compliment. Miss Harri¬ 
son,” Capt. Merriman beamed. “And we’ll try to 
run the trip faster still if you will promise us an¬ 
other speech like that.” 



64 


Pilot on the River 


A tinkle of laughter, and they were gone. 

“Nuisance, these passengers,” Lexington’s voice 
grated. But Bill noticed he still smiled. Then he 
promptly forgot his chief. How, he wondered, does 
a cub pilot go about getting acquainted with a pas- 
senger like Constance Harrison? 




Chapter V 

A RESCUE ASHORE 

Constance Harrison and her jolly companion, Lucy 
French, did not re-visit the pilothouse during the rest 
of the day although Bill caught a glimpse of them as 
he hurried on an errand through the mass of whirl¬ 
ing couples during the ball that evening. Both seemed 
engrossed in the correct steps of their high-collared 
escorts. 

In the morning as Bill came onto the hurricane, 
the panorama of river and plantations that spread be¬ 
fore his eyes could have been a different country from 
that which he had seen in the sunset the evening be- 

65 









66 


Pilot on the River 


fore. Now the Magnolia seemed to ride on a high 
platform with the sweeping fields of sugar cane 
stretched out at ground level at his feet. Suddenly 
he knew that he had come into the real levee coun- 
try, that the boat had risen high above the actual 
shore level because the river, restrained by levees 
had raised it like an elevator. Before the banks and 
bluffs had generally been higher than the water. Now 
the artificial walls of earth had squeezed the mighty 
Mississippi above its natural banks. 

Bayous—narrow winding streams—meandered off 
into tangles of cypress and moss-draped live oak. Ap¬ 
parently boundless fields were broken only by stately, 
white-pillared plantation houses, backed by their 
rows of rough log slave cabins. Sometimes a road 
topped the levee, otherwise flights of wooden steps 
led from the bank to private boat landings. 

“Do you like our scenery, Mr. Wingate?” a quiet, 
musical voice sang from behind him. 

Bill spun around. The young lady was Constance 
Harrison, promenading the deck with her Negro 
mammy. Bill bowed deeply, sweeping off his cap in 
a gesture he hoped equalled that of his chief. “Good 
morning. Miss Harrison. I’m having my first view of 
Louisiana.” 

“Then you’re new to the boat?” 



A Rescue Ashore 


67 


“Yes, Miss Harrison. I come from Quincy, Illi' 
nois.” 

“But you do like what you have seen of Louisiana? 
Things like that magnolia tree yonder.” 

Bill followed her eyes to the great, spreading 
boughs radiant with gleaming white blossoms reflect' 
ed in shining leaves. 

“It’s beautiful. I’ve never seen such big flowers 
growing on a tree.” 

“It’s still a little early for them. You’ll see more 
on your uptrip.” 

“Mr. Wingate is very fortunate this morning,” a 
familiar voice broke into their conversation. 

“Oh, good morning, Mr. Lexington,” Constance 
curtsied. “I was just showing Mr. Wingate the beau' 
ties of the delta country.” 

“Of which, if I may say so, Miss, you are one,” 
the pilot put in gallantly. 

Blushingly, confused, Constance thanked him and 
turned to her mammy. “Come, Hattie. Father must 
be waiting for me. Good morning, gentlemen.” 

Almost before Bill had finished his farewell, Lex- 
ington took him by the arm. “You’ll never learn 
piloting that way,” he bit out. “Her father owns a 
good share of Mississippi. And you’re only a cub 
pilot. You’ve got no time for girls. Not if we’re 



68 


Pilot on the River 


going to get this boat into New Orleans before 
noon.” 

Steaming down around the long crescent of the 
river into New Orleans brought to Bill Wingate the 
thrill his father had promised it would. Algiers, 
its factories and shipyards to the right, and the city 
of New Orleans to his left, were both larger than 
any city he had ever seen. 

Wharves and brick buildings up to six or seven 
stories high stretched for miles along the shore line 
of the river. Scores of steamboats flanked the water’s 
edge. White, fleecy bales of cotton tumbled from 
the long line of cotton boats onto the Julia Street 
Wharf. There were solid banks of towering smoke' 
stacks that had disgorged thick black smoke from 
Louisville and Cincinnati, from St. Louis and Mem' 
phis, down to this first rank American port. Farther 
on, past Canal Street, lines of craft stretched down 
to St. Louis Street. Then came tall, black'hulled craft 
from foreign lands—steamers and lofty'masted sail' 
ing ships. Over it all for Bill hovered the excite' 
ment and hurry of St. Louis multiplied many'fold. 

Capt. Merriman had no more than called from the 
bridge, “All right, Mr. Lexington” when Bill’s chief 
made for the ladder. “I’m going ashore,” he instruct' 
ed coldly. “Won’t be back until we shove off. Plan 



A Rescue Ashore 


69 


to stay on the boat at night and be here ready to 
leave at five on Wednesday evening.” 

“Yes, sir.” Bill stood aside for Lexington to pre- 
cede him, but the pilot hesitated. 

“Got any money?” he demanded. 

“Yes-yes, sir. Ten dollars my father gave me when 
I left.” 

“Well, don’t spend it here. Save it. Take this and 
have a good time. And don’t come back with any 
of it left. Understand?” 

Before Bill could read the five on the banknote 
his chief had jammed into his hand, the man had 
pattered down the ladder and disappeared into the 
texas. 

In his own cabin, Bill discovered a grinning, jubi¬ 
lant Jo Hartley whistling, “Oh, Dem Golden Slip¬ 
pers!” 

“Ho-ho, Mr. Wingate. I trust you would not ob¬ 
ject to company on your first visit to the Crescent 
City. I will serve as guide and protector. Ah yes, 
and as a human fountain of enthusiasm. For the first 
time in my career as an engineer I have avoided the 
doubtful honor of being allowed to clean boilers most 
of the time the boat was in New Orleans!” 

Bill pounced on him, rolled him onto the lower 
bunk. 



70 


Pilot on the River 


“Guide! Escort! You’re hired. But I’ve got an¬ 
other job for you, too. You have to help me spend 
this five dollars the chief gave me. He issued orders 
that it had to be spent in New Orleans before I 
came back aboard for the next trip.” 

Jo yanked himself free and stood up to gaze at his 
friend. “ Ton my soul. I don’t believe it.” 

“Here’s the evidence,” Bill waved the note above 
his head. 

Jo shook his head slowly in mock sorrow. “And 
I got my wages today. It’s going to be hard, but 
we’ll have to spend five dollars apiece. Come on, 
we might as well face our ordeal.” 

They picked their way joyously through the heaps 
of freight and hordes of people toward Canal Street. 
Bill wanted to pause and look at the new Custom 
House, the largest building in the United States ex¬ 
cept the Capitol at Washington, but Jo had other 
ideas. He led the Quincy boy up the east side of 
Canal Street, listening to him exclaim about the 
horsecars and the wide island of grass that separated 
northbound from southbound traffic. Here stretched 
the widest street Bill had ever seen, a street full of 
fascinating possibilities, yet dignified with the solid 
appearance that comes with age. 

“The first thing you want is a plate of oysters,” 



A Rescue Ashore 


7i 


Jo confided, “And I know just the place. Right in 
here. Cheap, but—m—mmm—how good!” 

He led Bill into a small shop that consisted only 
of a long, scrubbed wooden counter, a line of bat¬ 
tered stools and a shelf behind the counter where a 
pair of men with knives snapped open a steady 
stream of shells, slipped the oysters out onto a plate 
and to the counter in a continuous, smooth motion. 
With the oysters came little crackers and a bowl of 
sauce. Before Bill could restrain his friend, they had 
consumed two dozen. 

Without a question they headed back toward the 
levee and the moorings of the ocean-going vessels. 
Cutting down St. Peter Street, past St. Louis Cathe¬ 
dral and the old Spanish Cabildo they struck the 
levee and headed downriver. On they walked, 
through warehouses fragrant with spices and coffee, 
onto wharf planks over which had pattered the bare 
feet of tropical sailors and the rough shoes of gulf 
fishermen. Jo explained the flags and markings on 
the different ships. Suddenly he was interrupted by 
a piercing scream. 

“Jo! This way!” Bill hissed as he spun on his heel 
and dashed down the pier. 

The screams continued. Bill caught sight of a 
swarthy sailor in a striped sweater bending over a 



72 


Pilot on the River 


wriggling form. Then the seaman stood erect and 
fled. 

Bill raced on, dodging sacks of coffee, trying to 
keep his footing. Jo, surprisingly fast for his gener^ 
ous weight, kept right at his heels. 

For the moment the wharf seemed deserted. Few 
saw the chase, and those were only stevedores who 
paid no attention. 

“We’re gaining,” Bill puffed. “Just—a—little— 
faster.” 

Now the sailor tripped over a low truck lying in 
his path and kept his feet only after a precarious 
moment of fighting for balance. In that moment. 
Bill and Jo pounced upon him. 

It took only a second for the boys to find they 
had met their match. Panting, hearts hammering, 
they made little impression with their hardest blows. 

“Look out! His right hand! He’s got a knife,” Jo 
suddenly puffed. 

In an instant Bill and Jo’s hands pressed with all 
their might on that thrashing, murderous right wrist. 
And, with each jerking movement of the knife, the 
boys could feel their strength ebbing. Bill knew the 
fight would soon be over, would soon bring— 

“What’s this here? Grab that knife!” an angry 
voice cried out as a great hairy hand snatched out. 



A Rescue Ashore 


73 


and clamped the sailor’s wrist tight to the boards. 

Another moment, and a harbor policeman had 
handcuffed the sailor and dug a woman’s handbag 
from his pocket. “Where did this all start?” the offi' 
cer demanded. 

“Back there by that American merchant ship,” 
Bill reported, nursing a bleeding elbow. “We just 
heard a woman’s scream and saw this fellow run' 
ning. I suppose he stole that purse.” 

“Better get back there, then. Either of you 
youngsters hurt?” 

“No, suh,” Jo boomed. “Just shaken up a little. 
Lead on.” 

A little knot of people had gathered back by the 
American ship, but the officer forced his way through 
with the boys following. Bill stopped short when 
he recognized two girls, their backs propped against 
a bale of cotton, sitting listlessly on a cape some 
gentleman had thrown onto the wharf. One of the 
girls, chubby and blonde, had fainted and a cap' 
tain from a deep sea ship was trying to bring her 
around. Yes, that girl was Lucy French. And be- 
side her, eyes closed and dress tom, lay Constance 
Harrison! 




Chapter VI 
A DINNER PARTY 

Panic swept through Bill Wingate as he stared 
at the two girls. Apparently Lucy French had only 
fainted, but Constance Harrison seemed in serious 
pain. Just as Lucy’s eyes came open fitfully from the 
smelling salts held under her nose, the policeman 
broke in. 

“I guess we’ve got the fellow who did all this,” 
he announced. “These boys here caught him. He 
was ready to knife them when I jumped into the 
scrap.” 

A tall, impressive gentleman, digging nervously 


74 


A Dinner Party 


75 


into the pockets of his flowered waistcoat turned to 
Bill and Jo. “These boys here?” he asked, now tug¬ 
ging at his long mustaches and pointed beard that 
seemed to emphasize the stylish sweep of his broad- 
brimmed soft hat. 

‘These two,” the officer replied. “And they got 
banged up a bit in the process.” 

“Permit me to introduce myself,” the tall man 
bowed. “Pauncefoote L. Harrison of Oaknoll Planta¬ 
tion. I am very grateful to you for the rescue of 
my daughter.” 

Constance’s father! Bill had difficulty in making 
his voice work, but he managed to answer, pointing 
to Jo, ‘This is Josiah Hartley, an engineer on the 
steamer Magnolia. I am William Wingate, cub pilot. 
But is Miss Harrison seriously hurt, sir?” 

“I believe not, fortunately. We have sent for a 
doctor, but she seems to be more upset than in¬ 
jured.” 

Then Constance and Lucy, each resting on an arm 
of the captain stood beside them. Both seemed a 
little shaky but otherwise recovered. 

“I certainly am ashamed of myself,” Lucy pro¬ 
tested. “Our dear Constance was being robbed, and 
all I could do was faint.” 

“Don’t worry,” Constance comforted her. 



76 


Pilot on the River 


“They’ve caught the man now and got my money 
back. Will you introduce me to your friend who 
helped you, Mr. Wingate?” 

Bill blushed at his carelessness and haltingly pre¬ 
sented Jo to the two girls. 

“Now the young ladies must go to the captain’s 
cabin and rest until the doctor comes,” Planter Har¬ 
rison broke in. 

“On one condition, Father,” Constance flashed 
her most winning smile. “If you’ll invite Mr. Win¬ 
gate and Mr. Hartley to dine with us this evening 
and attend the theatre.” 

“Of course, my child. Now run along with Capt. 
Bonet and rest.” 

He turned to the boys. “It was all my fault. I 
was talking with the captain about a shipment from 
France and lost track of the girls. If it hadn’t been 
for you lads, things might have been much worse.” 
He eyed the two more carefully. “You must allow 
me,” he went on, “to have your clothing replaced.” 

Before the boys could protest, he drew a pencil 
and a card from an inside pocket and scribbled hur¬ 
riedly. “Take this to M. LeGrande on Canal Street. 
My personal tailor. Now where may I have my 
carriage pick you up this evening?” 

Bill and Jo looked at one another, bewildered. 




Bill haltingly presented Jo to the two girls 

































A Dinner Party 


79 


Where does a steamboatman await his host’s car' 
riage? 

“Would the levee at the Magnolias berth be satis- 
factory? At seven o’clock? We plan to go to An' 
toine’s.’’ 

“Yes, sir. But we can come to the cafe just as—” 

Mr. Harrison raised his hand: 

“I insist. Perhaps, it might be well to have M. Le' 
Grande provide you with evening things. At my 
expense, of course. 

‘That is, if you haven’t yours aboard the boat,” 
he added hastily. 

Bill and Jo headed back for Canal Street in a 
haze of joyous excitement. Their bruises were for' 
gotten as they talked breathlessly. 

“We shouldn’t take those clothes,” Jo said sud' 
denly. “But what else could we do? I haven’t an' 
other stitch except my working outfit. We couldn’t 
have dinner with them without evening clothes. 
And I had to see that Miss French again.” 

“I hated to agree to it, too, but Mr. Harrison 
seemed so insistent. As if his feelings would be hurt 
if we didn’t accept.” 

“That’s it. Well, here goes,” Jo finished as they 
turned into a shop marked 

M. LEGRANDE 



8o 


Pilot on the River 


Back in their cabin that night, the two, after 
shedding the new finery, stretched out to revel in 
their last few hours. 

“Down Canal Street in a carriage,” Bill mused. 
“All the bright gas lights and fine horses and bright 
shops. And that theatre. I’ve never in my life seen 
a show like that. Beautiful curtains and colored 
lights. Quality folk dressed in their finest.” 

“And that meal. Those Creole sauces. And the 
French waiters so quick you didn’t know they were 
there. The plates came and went like magic. This 
was the first time I’ve ever eaten in a place like that 
in New Orleans. And with people like the Harri' 
sons and Lucy French,” Jo rhapsodized. 

“Lucy French? How about Constance Harrison?” 
Bill retorted. 

“Oh, so you’re interested, too?” 

Abashed, Bill did not answer, though he knew 
Jo was right, had known it ever since he had dis' 
covered Constance lying injured on the dock that 
afternoon. 

“I couldn’t blame you, if you like that type,” Jo 
went on. “She was certainly game tonight, covering 
up that ugly bump she had with a hat and having 
just as much fun as the rest of us.” 

“She certainly was. I wonder if we’ll ever get a 



T A Dinner Party 


81 


chance to accept Mr. Harrison’s invitation to visit 
them at Oaknoll.” 

“He likes you. And that surprises me,’’ Jo changed 
the subject abruptly. 

“Why?” 

“Because you’re a Northerner. Worse than that, 
your father was a down'East Yankee.’’ 

“But that didn’t seem to make any difference to 
Mr. Harrison.’’ 

“That’s why I say he must have liked you. Re' 
member how he asked all about your parentage? 
And what you thought of the South? And whether 
you’d been to the slave market?’’ 

“Yes, but—’’ 

“Well, you were just lucky enough to tell him 
that your father had liked the South when he was 
on the river, that you fell in love with it on your 
first trip down on the Magnolia mid that you couldn’t 
see why those who wanted slaves shouldn’t be al' 
lowed to have them.’’ 

“But that is the way I feel, Jo,” Bill protested. 
It worried him to realize that Jo was also a South' 
emer, that they might quarrel over opinions they 
each had held since childhood. 

“Remember what I told you the first night on 
the boat when you told me what you were going to 



82 


Pilot on the River 


do for your dad? That the different ideas of South¬ 
erners and Yankees might bring trouble?” 

Bill nodded. 

“Well, tonight was a perfect example of it. Mr. 
Harrison didn’t want to let himself like you until 
he was sure you had no anti-Southern opinions. 
Both Northerners and Southerners are that way. 
Plenty of Northerners distrust me, just as soon as 
they hear my Dixie way of talking, in the same way 
as Mr. Harrison distrusted you. I’ve learned that 
they’re both partly right and partly wrong. I’m 
glad you feel the same way about it. Then, at least, 
we won’t have any trouble between ourselves or 
with anybody else.” 

“No, we won’t,” Bill replied slowly. He had be¬ 
gun to realize what this hostile feeling on both sides 
could mean, what trouble it might eventually cause. 
Silently, he thanked his father for showing him un¬ 
obtrusively the right on both sides of the North- 
and-South question. 

“I think Mr. Harrison liked you too, Jo,” he went 
on. 

“Yes, but if he’d come from Boston, he’d have 
thought twice before he’d really feel safe in letting 
the girls see me again.” 

Bill managed to grin as he drove these unpleasant 



A Dinner Party 


83 


thoughts from his mind. “All right, Mr. Senator,” 
he laughed. “But let’s get some sleep now. Remem' 
her we have a fitting at our exclusive French tailor’s 
in the morning.” 

“Yes, my lord,” Jo laughed and dug an elbow into 
Bill’s ribs. “If you’ll remove yourself from the sen¬ 
atorial couch, His Honor will retire.” 

Shortly after five o’clock next afternoon, rousters 
tugged at mooring lines, wound stage tackle around 
the capstan. Up in the pilothouse, Bill waited im' 
patiently for his chief. He knew that Lemuel Birch 
and his steersman were already on board taking a 
nap, but Lexington would take the Magnolia out. 

Capt. Merriman sounded the last beat on the big 
bell forward, then cocked his eyes up to the pilot' 
house, back to the levee. At that moment a landau, 
drawn by a pair of prancing chestnut horses, bumped 
down toward the water and stopped. The graceful 
figure of Andrew Lexington stepped out. 

Scorning haste, he strolled to the plank, twirling 
a silver'topped malacca cane. Aware that all eyes 
were on him, he tipped his high hat gallantly and 
made his leisurely way topside. From behind the 
wheel he nodded to the captain, and the Magnolia 
slid slowly back out of the line. 



84 


Pilot on the River 


Now Lexington set her wheels forward and began 
clipping the stems of the thick ranks of steamboats. 
“Run ’em close,” he spoke to Bill who stood beside 
him because the high bench was packed with passen¬ 
gers. “The easy water is close to the bank. Current 
is faster and harder to fight out in the middle.” 

Bill slipped from his pocket a small black notebook 
he had bought in New Orleans and entered his 
chief’s instructions. 

“Now you’re learning,” Lexington admitted. He 
seemed to be in a generous frame of mind. “Write 
down everything I tell you in that book.” 

“Yes, sir. And I had a fine time with that money.” 

“Forget it. It was—” 

“Oh, there he is,” Capt. Merriman thundered 
through the doorway. “Do you know you have a 
hero for a cub, Mr. Lexington?” 

“I heard something along that line,” the pilot re¬ 
marked sourly. “Why?” 

“I’d like to speak to him for a moment.” 

“Come in here and do it,” Lexington’s tone left 
the captain no choice. 

“I—just wanted to give him this bank book. Mr. 
Harrison has deposited a hundred dollars in Bill’s 
name in the bank and a hundred for Jo Hartley. For 
rescuing his daughter and her friend. He left the 



A Dinner Party 


85 


books with me so that the boys couldn’t refuse the 
money. He insisted they take it.” 

A hundred dollars! It was too much to believe! 
Then Bill’s elation collapsed. He really ought not 
to take the money. Yet he remembered Mr. Harri' 
son’s face when he and Jo had tried to refuse his 
offers the previous day. 

Too, a hundred dollars would make a grand start 
toward the savings for a boat. With that as a foum 
dation, it wouldn’t be so hard to save more. 

“I’ll write and thank him so that it catches the 
next mail connection,” Bill announced. “Thank 
you, Capt. Merriman.” 

“Don’t thank me. You and Jo did something to 
make us all proud of you. You deserve a reward.” 

Seeing Lexington’s cold gaze that ignored him and 
Capt. Merriman altogether, he quickly slipped the 
book into an inner pocket and turned back to the 
pilot as the irritated captain went below. 

“Now we’ll get back to piloting,” Lexington in' 
structed acidly. “I hope this hasn’t given you any 
fancy ideas.” 

Already Bill had learned the wisest response to 
such remarks from his chief. He merely said nothing. 

Going below after his watch, he paused briefly 
on the hurricane to watch the last of the sunset 



86 


Pilot on the River 


before dinner. Then as he passed the window of the 
captain’s double cabin, he heard voices: 

“Just a friendly game,” one man coaxed softly. 
“It’s a long, tiresome trip way up to St. Louis. We 
might as well enjoy ourselves.” 

“I promised myself I wouldn’t on this trip,” said 
another, “but it’s hard to resist gentlemen like your' 
selves.” 

“Ah, capital!” from a third. “Low 6takes, of 
course.” 

Bill had had no intention of listening, or watch' 
ing, but the lamps had just been lit and the cabin 
door had been opened. So it was difficult not to see 
the four inscrutable faces already watching new 
cards flash over a green table cover, greenbacks and 
gold coins being moved into neat stacks by prac' 
ticed fingers. 

“It’s none of my business,” Bill mumbled to him' 
self, but that picture had struck him forcibly. He 
had heard of more than a few shootings resulting 
from just such a friendly game, though he hadn’t 
ever really been able to believe the stories. 

In a moment he was in the cabin with Jo, and 
their new bank books had driven everything else 
out of his mind. 




Chapter VII 

GAMBLERS ON BOARD 

When Bill started above at eight the next morning, 
he passed the captain’s cabin again. The “slip'slip” 
of shuffled cards and the low hum of men’s voices 
still filtered out to the deck. He remembered the 
same sound came to his ears at four in the morning 
when he had climbed into his bunk. Yes, and these 
were the same men who had started playing just 
after the Magnolia had left New Orleans. 

Then another sound distracted his attention. The 
steady drumming of the engines had risen to a roar. 
The deck under his feet trembled alarmingly as 

87 



















Pilot on the River 


the boat took on more speed, fought fiercely the 
battering high'river current. As he stood there try' 
ing to discover a reason for this feverish speed 
Andrew Lexington raced past him toward the pilot' 
house ladder. For the first time since Bill had been 
aboard the Magnolia Andrew Lexington was hurry' 
ing, coming onto watch five minutes early. Bill 
hastened to follow him. 

“What’s going on?’’ he queried excitedly, noticing 
that Birch and his cub had not taken advantage of 
their five minutes of freedom. 

“Look below to port,” Lexington shouted, his 
haughty calm completely absent. “The Ingomar. 
Memphis cotton boat out of New Orleans. Thinks 
she can pass us.” 

Bill looked. He saw a glorious sight. The bow 
of the fleet cotton'carrier seemed to claw at the 
Magnolias paddle boxes. Her captain stood on the 
roof, now shouting to the boiler room for more 
steam, now to the pilot to urge the engines on 
faster. Black smoke belched from her stacks as her 
wheels churned white eddies, hurled them against 
the Magnolia. Passengers lined her guards even 
though the crew tried to get part of them to the 
other side to balance the boat. Now passengers 
jammed the Magnolias port rail, shouting encourage' 



Gamblers on Board 


89 


ment to her crew and taunts at those aboard the 
rival boat. 

Lexington and Birch had miraculously become re' 
spectful of one another’s abilities. “Would you cross 
here into the easier water behind that towhead, Mr. 
Lexington?” the shabby pilot inquired. 

“Capital idea, sir,” Lexington replied. “Then, if 
I may say so, we will be in perfect line to run the 
chute behind the island.” 

Then Lexington spun around to the speaking 
tubes. “What’s the matter with you lazy alligators 
down there? Can’t you give her any more speed?” 

But still the Ingomar pressed ahead. 

“They’re putting lard on her fires!” a voice rang 
up from the Magnolias furnace pit. “Got any lard 
on this tub?” 

“Bill, quick,” Lexington commanded. “Get below 
and see if you can get the captain to find some lard 
for our fires! Hurry!” 

Young Wingate delivered his message to Capt. 
Merriman who panted, face drooping, by the pulsat' 
ing engines. 

“No use,” he replied heavily. “We’re using lard 
now. And the anvil is hung on the safety valve. 
We’ll just have to let them go. We have a full 
cargo, and they’re almost light.” 



90 


Pilot on the River 


Lexington grated his teeth at the report. “He’s 
ri ght . We’ll have to give up. Those blasted cotton 
boats make so much running a load of cotton down' 
stream that they can afford to take little but passes 
gers upstream in order to get another cargo of cotton 
from the warehouses sooner. We’ll get them yet. 
On a down trip. You wait and see!” 

Soon the trim stem of the lngomar passed the 
Magnolias forecastle and, not long after, disappeared 
from sight around a bend. 

The discouraged calm that hung over the texas 
abruptly melted in a fusillade of shots. Bill, steering, 
dared not take his eyes from the river, but his ears 
told him the gunfire came from the captain’s cabin. 

Lexington snatched the wheel, after a quick sur' 
vey of the hurricane deck. “Shut that door and get 
below the windows until you’re sure it’s over,” he 
ordered brusquely. 

Two more explosions, and a bullet crashed through 
a side, then a forward window. Lexington hunched 
over the wheel, only his eyes and a high hat showing 
over the lower edge of the forward window frame. 

Bill heard the unmistakable thump of a human 
body falling. He peeked over the edge of the door' 
glass. He could see a hand and wrist lying on the 
deck holding a revolver; then a foot kicking savagely 



Gamblers on Board 


9i 


at the gun and a brief splash as the weapon disap- 
peared into the Mississippi. 

“All right,” Lexington’s voice had resumed its 
composure. “You can get up now. Guess they’ve 
finished him.” 

“May I go down and see who it is, sir?” 

“If you don’t stay down there all day. And get 
me a stogie while you’re gone.” 

Capt. Merriman and Jim Barnes, the mud clerk, 
already were bending over the still body that now 
lay on its back. 

“No pulse,” Barnes whispered. “He’s done for. 
Shot right through the heart.” 

“Walter Harlow from St. Louis, isn’t it?” the 
captain asked in a matter-ofifact tone. 

'‘Yes. Merchant up there. Thought he’d learned 
his lesson after that last trip.” 

“He came here to teach a lesson this time,” offered 
a passenger who was wrapping a bleeding wrist in 
a silk handkerchief. “Those two cardsharpers, Car' 
son and Villiers, took him for a thousand the last 
time he came back from New Orleans. This time he 
brought two thousand and a gun and got me to play 
in his game against them, to see that they played 
honestly. I was lucky to get nothing worse than a 
skinned wrist.” 



92 


Pilot on the River 


“What happened?” the captain’s voice continued 
impersonally. 

“Well, we played from New Orleans until now. 
We won up until this morning and then started to 
lose. I stopped about an hour ago when I’d lost 
all I cared to let go. Harlow kept right on. He 
started to complain, and they tried to get him to 
take some drinks to calm his temper, but he wouldn’t 
drink. He lost larger and larger stakes, and I sig' 
nailed to him that I had seen—I thought—that Car' 
son was putting cards up his sleeve. Harlow lost a 
big pot and pulled a gun, yelling he wanted Carson 
to take his coat off and show those cards up his 
sleeve.” 

“And, before Carson could shoot, Villiers had 
plugged Harlow?” Capt. Merriman finished. 

“How did you know that?” 

The captain did not answer, only questioned. 
“Did Harlow get Carson?” 

“Carson’s dead,” the injured passenger shouted 
angrily, “but Villiers is free on this boat. Not even 
wounded. What are you going to do about it!” 
His voice raised shrilly. 

“Come now,” Capt. Merriman patted him on the 
shoulder. “You’ve had a bad shock. Come below 
and sample some of my best brandy.” 



Gamblers on Board 


93 


He turned to the clerk and spoke softly. “See 
that the body’s properly taken care of and ready 
for going ashore whenever his friend chooses to 
leave the boat. Villiers will tend to the other one.” 

His arm around the man’s shoulder, Capt. Merri- 
man led him toward the bar. When Bill passed them 
after securing Lexington’s stogie, they were chatting 
like old friends. “Probably Natchez would be the 
best place to stop ashore for embalming,” he could 
hear the injured man saying. 

After he had described the entire incident to his 
chief, Bill asked the question that had been bother' 
ing him ever since he had seen the captain dismiss 
the incident without asking to see Villiers, Harlow’s 
murderer. 

“Aren’t they going to do anything about Villiers? 
Won’t he be arrested?” 

Lexington laughed sourly. 

“That shows how new you are to the river. Vib 
liers may leave the boat for a trip or two, but he’ll 
be back.” 

“Doesn’t Capt. Merriman—well, object?” 

“He doesn’t like it, but it’s a pretty hard thing 
to avoid. It’s usually healthier to let gamblers alone 
unless you want yourself ventilated with hot lead.” 

So that was the way of things, Bill thought. It 



94 


Pilot on the River 


was true then that rivermen still took the law into 
their own hands. His spine prickled with uneasiness 
as he realized the dangers that he faced from men 
as well as from the river herself and from the frailties 
of steamboats. 

“And see that you stay away from those fellows 
altogether. And from all gamblers,” Lexington or¬ 
dered. 

“You don’t have to tell me that,” Bill replied, try¬ 
ing to keep his eyes off the form that lay under a 
sheet on the deck. 

Just as Andrew Lexington predicted, Villiers 
walked casually down the plank at St. Louis, fol¬ 
lowed by a Negro porter carrying his luggage. The 
gambler took his time about securing a carriage, then 
tipped his beaver contemptuously as the rig lurched 
up the levee. 

Proud of his prominent escort. Bill Wingate hur¬ 
ried up with Andrew Lexington to one of the build¬ 
ings above the waterfront. 

“You see,” the pilot explained as they passed into 
a long, comfortable, smoke-filled room, “The Pilots’ 
Association allows each member to have one steers¬ 
man who has to be endorsed by his chief and another 
pilot, when he gets his license, before he can be 



Gamblers on Board 


95 


admitted as a member. That’s how we’re keeping 
wages up to two fifty a month. We keep down the 
supply of pilots so that owners have to pay well to 
get one. And the insurance companies will let them 
have only member pilots.” 

By that time Lexington was being greeted from 
every side as he strolled up to the secretary’s desk. 
“How was your trip, Andy?” 

“I see the Ingomar left you astern.” 

“Come and have a drink with us, Lex.” 

But Bill’s chief only raised a hand, smiled, and 
made arrangements to have Bill as his steersman. 

Meanwhile young Wingate’s eyes grew wide as 
he scanned the faces in the splendidly furnished room. 
There was Horace Bixby, famous for his running of 
Hat Island in low water. Here was Capt. E. W. 
Gould of the Imperial, a boat of the famous Rail¬ 
road Line, enjoying himself as the guest of his crack 
pilot. Beside him sat Capt. Rogers of the James E. 
Woodruff, another Railroad Line packet, and the first 
boat to publish a daily newspaper on board. 

Then Bill’s eyes left these notables as a roar of 
laughter burst from one comer of the room. Busi¬ 
ness finished, Lexington had just turned to leave. 
Instead he took Bill’s arm and led him toward the 
knot of pilots in the comer. 



Pilot on the River 


96 

‘That’s Sam Clemens they’re laughing at over 
there,” he confided. ‘‘He’s Horace Bixby’s cub. 
Writes bits for the newspapers now and then.” 

Just as they heard a drawling voice start on a 
new anecdote, Lexington added: 

‘‘Come to think about it, Clemens comes from up 
your way. From Hannibal. Like to know him?” 

“Yes, sir,” Bill answered breathlessly. He had a 1- 
ready, on his one round-trip to New Orleans, heard 
tales of Sam Clemens’ lazy wit. 

In the comer, legs over chair arm, fingers indolent¬ 
ly holding a long stogie. Bill saw a rather short, care¬ 
less-looking man. Almost his entire appearance 
seemed to fit perfectly that drawling voice and easy 
smile. But Bill noticed the penetration of the man’s 
eyes, the vitality in bushy hair above a high, wide 
forehead. 

“—and, you know,” he was finishing, “that slave 
ain’t been in that chicken yard since. He didn’t 
mind when they peppered him with buckshot, but 
when they took to loadin’ a shotgun with carpet 
tacks, he ’lowed he’d try some other chicken yard.” 

Lexington pushed through to stand before 
Clemens, and Bill could see now that Bixby’s cub 
was not over twenty-five or twenty-six years old. 

“This is Bill Wingate, Sam,” Lexington broke into 




Gamblers on Board 


97 


the general laughter. “My cub. He comes from up 
in Quincy.” 

“Hello, Bill,” Clemens shook hands warmly. 
“Ever been down to Hannibal?” 

“Not often. But that cave surely was interesting.” 

“And then some. Some day I’ll tell you how I 
nearly got lost inside. I didn’t like it very much.” 

“Neither did I. But you can see the river better 
from that hill than you can from Quincy.” 

Before they could say more, a Negro waiter burst 
into the group, eyes goggling with excitement. 

“Gotta hurry, Marse Clemens. Penns’vania, she 
done rang her last bell. Leavin’ any minute. They’s 
waitin’ on you-all! Marse Bixby left already.” 

Clemens grinned slowly. “Well, gentlemen, per¬ 
haps I may be forced to leave this pleasant company 
to relieve my captain’s blood pressure.” 

“We bettah hurry or get left,” the waiter panted 
in exasperation at the deliberation with which 
Clemens relit his stogie and got to his feet. 

“You’re wrong there, Velvet,” he told the Negro. 
“Yo« better hurry and tell them I’m coming or I’ll 
get left. Off with you now.” Then he turned back 
to Bill. “Look me up when I’m not pressed with 
onerous duty,” he patted Bill on the shoulder as he 
left. 



98 


Pilot on the River 


“That fellow’ll never amount to much,” Lexington 
shook his head disgustedly. 

“I wonder—” Bill mumbled, half to himself, as 
he thought of those alhseeing eyes and broad fore' 
head. 

“He might have seemed lazy, walking out of here,” 
remarked a member, peering out the window. “But 
now he’s running down that hill as fast as I’ve ever 
seen a human being run.” 





Chapter VIII 
A BAD FIRE 

The steamer Magnolia, as she slipped downstream 
over moonlit water above Natchez, seemed as pleased 
with herself as Capt. Horace Merriman and Pilot 
Andrew Lexington who chatted elatedly on the high 
bench behind Bill Wingate. 

They would look blissfully astern, smile over their 
shoulders as the lights of the Ingomar grew dimmer 
and dimmer and finally disappeared. Carrying about 
the same cargo as the Ingomar out of Memphis, the 
Magnolia’s drumming engines that still shook the high 
bench had driven her under Lexington’s skillful hand 
into the lead. 


99 


100 


Pilot on the River 


Now the drumming eased as the pilot took the 
wheel from Bill and brought the boat to an easy 
landing alongside Perkins’ woodyard. The boat 
heeled as the larboard wheel touched bottom and 
stopped. 

Lexington went back to gloating with Capt. Mer- 
riman, then reached for the bellpulls to the engine 
room as a hail of “All loaded, sir,” floated up in the 
chief mate’s coarse bass. 

The bow of the Magnolia nosed into the current, 
as she started to slip placidly downstream and settle 
back onto an even keel. 

What happened in the next moment could never 
be described calmly by anyone aboard the Magnolia. 
Bill Wingate, looking aft from the pilothouse window 
to watch the stem clear the bank, was hurtled against 
the door frame, shattering the glass as a deafening 
explosion thundered up forward. 

Fighting to keep his feet, he whirled toward the 
bow, felt himself being slammed back behind the 
door, then dragged through it and down onto the 
hurricane in Capt. Merriman’s fierce grip. 

In self-preservation, Bill hid his head in his arms 
as great chunks of metal and wood crashed from the 
black sky onto the deck around him. Faintly remem¬ 
bering his father’s tales of steamboat explosions, he 



A Bad Fire 


IOI 


buried his mouth and nose in his coat lapels and 
crept around the edge of the pilothouse toward the 
bow. 

On all sides men dived blindly into the water, 
bodies were thrown violently from the guards for' 
ward of the wheelhouses, deck passengers fought to 
escape from the deadly white cloud that burst from 
the shattered boilers. 

Jo Hartley had been on watch in that inferno! 
Despair clutched at Bill’s heart as he peered through 
the crack between his coat lapels and cap, saw flames 
whipping faster and faster from that cavernous 
emptiness that had been the bow section of the 
Magnolia. 

The hull still floated downstream uninjured, but 
that very motion pressed flames back over the rest 
of the boat, hurled long, murderous red tongues 
and piles of black smoke through the open forward 
window of the pilothouse. Gasping, tortured with 
the scalding heat and smoke, Andrew Lexington 
crouched in the slight shelter of the wheel, fought 
to claw the Magnolia’s bow toward the bank, fought 
in vain as she caught in swift water around a tow- 
head. 

In the distance peacefully blinked the lights of 
Natchez, only about a mile away—but a mile in 



102 


Pilot on the "River 


which the Magnolia would certainly be consumed by 
flames. 

With a crash, another set of cabin uprights cob 
lapsed, smashing down with it more of each deck. 
Shrieks of the wounded, panic-stricken men and 
women pinned under the heavy, flaming beams and 
red-hot ironwork pierced the suffocating air. 

Now the forward edge of the pilothouse hung out 
over emptiness. Bill crept aft toward the sounding 
boat and yawl that lay lashed on the roof already 
surrounded by dazed passengers and deckhands fum¬ 
bling clumsily at knots in the lines. Over his shoul¬ 
der he saw Andrew Lexington frantically roping the 
wheel hard to larboard and dashing down the ladder 
to the roof. 

From the starboard companionway, puffing, black 
with soot, rushed Capt. Merriman. 

“She’s lashed!” shouted Lexington. “Nothing else 
to do.” 

“Get those boats down,” the captain ordered 
hoarsely. “You and Bill. Have those rousters help. 
All passengers stand by on the after guards on both 
sides, ready when the boats hit water. Quick now!” 

As the captain hurried back down the companion- 
way, Bill and Lexington forcibly drove passengers 
away from the boats to follow the captain. Then 



A Bad Fire 


103 


they hooked falls onto the two craft and rapidly set 
them into the water. 

“They have oarsmen down there,” the pilot beh 
lowed. “Clear the texas and the hurricane.” 

Now the pilothouse rose as a silhouette of black, 
framed in hungry flames. Pilot and cub checked each 
cabin in the texas, then drove every remaining rouster 
and passenger down the companionway ahead of 
them. At the foot of the ladders, they stopped to 
keep back anyone who might madly run back above. 

Slowly the Magnolia drifted nearer to shore. The 
wheels had stopped turning except for the pull of 
the current. Yawl and sounding boat, driven at heroic 
speed by panting deckhands, shot to and from the 
bank. But still the shore lay too far away to be 
reached by any but the most experienced swimmers. 
If only this clamoring, screaming mass of people could 
be rowed in before the flames reached the stem or 
entirely sank the hull! 

Bill forgot his own fear as he watched these help' 
less men, women and children, attacked on one side 
by roaring flames, hemmed in all around by water, 
seeing the shore so near, yet too far away to reach 
it by swimming. 

The first mate, a great hulk of a man, clambered 
over the stem rail of the boiler deck. He could not 



104 


Pilot on the River 


batter through to the narrow ladder leading up from 
the main deck, so had climbed the stem upright. 

“Clear this deck,” he bellowed. “Everyone below 
before the fire gets here. If you’re not off when it 
gets too hot on the main deck, you’ll have to jump.” 

Bill could feel the blistering heat pressing closer 
and closer. In a moment the stem would be aflame 
and all hope would be lost. For the Magnolia had 
drifted no closer to the bank. 

Then he spied an axe hung on the wall of the 
ladies’ cabin. Wrenching it loose, he left Lexington 
and the other crew members to handle the passengers, 
swung fiercely with the narrow blade at the long 
sections of scrolled rail. As fast as he could hack a 
piece loose, he kicked it overside. 

Quickly the passengers below realized what he 
was doing and dove, two or three at a time, into the 
water, seized the improvised rafts, started to paddle 
with their feet toward shore. Two sections still re' 
mained when the curving stem wall of the cabin 
puffed out in snapping tongues of fire, when the re' 
mainder of the superstructure seemed to teeter fore 
and aft with each puff of the rising wind. 

Then Bill dove toward the fire, felt his hair flash 
hot as he ripped a scorched door from its sag ging 
frame. With the last of his fading strength, he 








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He swung fiercely with the narrow blade 




A Bad Fire 


107 


heaved it far out, arched his body over the side 
after it. 

The cool, steady current served to rest him, to ease 
his jangling nerves. Grasping one end of the door, 
he propelled it toward the stampeding crowd at the 
stem—but he was too late. The two boats had just 
touched the steamer. All of the remaining passes 
gers had leaped into them, some hanging on the 
almost'submerged gunwales, others piled into a hope' 
less tangle of arms and legs. 

What boat hands had stayed on the steamer 
plunged in to swim beside the overburdened boats, 
to walk on the bottom, virtually carrying the craft, 
as soon as they could keep their heads above water. 
Only Capt. Merriman, a bitterly saddened yet de' 
fiant Capt. Merriman, stood on the afterguard of the 
Magnolia. 

“Come along,” Bill shouted, more desperate than 
respectful. “You can’t do anything now. Get on 
this plank!” 

The captain then slipped into the water from his 
wrecked steamer. The door sagged alarmingly urn 
der the captain’s weight, but Bill managed to start 
it off toward shore, heading downstream a little to 
keep out of the trough of the rising waves. 

“Where’s Jo Hartley?” the captain suddenly called. 



io8 


Pilot on the River 


“I haven’t seen him.” Then his voice lowered. “But 
he couldn’t have escaped from those controls. Not 
with boilers exploding twenty feet away.” 

Bill knew that the captain was right, but hearing 
the fact in words seemed to destroy the last wisp of 
hope. Nausea swept over him. His grip on the door 
slackened as the full meaning of the captain’s words 
struck home. 

“Bill! Bill! Bill Wingate!” a deep voice bored 
through the blackness of wind and water. “Help, 
Bill. It’s Jo!” 

Bill’s eyes whipped over his shoulder, caught sight 
of a slender, moving object that might have been an 
arm, forward of the wrecked paddlebox, against the 
brightness of the fire. Before he could look again, 
the door dived crazily under him. 

“Get out there and get him,” Capt. Merriman 
gasped as he thrashed toward shore through water 
up to his chin. “He’s got a leg pinned under the 
wreckage. But don’t take any chances. Don’t get 
on the boat. If you can’t yank him out from the 
water, leave him there!” 

“Yes, sir,” Bill panted, without the least intention 
of obeying. If he had to dive into those flames to 
rescue Jo Hartley, he intended to do it. 

As he at last neared the wreck, she caught in an 



A Bad Fire 


109 


eddy and twisted to a right angle with the wind, fan' 
ning the flames onto the water, onto an exhausted 
Bill Wingate and his unsteady raft. 

Bill ignored this new hazard. Recklessly he pad' 
died into the scorching blast. 

“I’m coming, Jo,” he called through swollen lips 
as he saw his friend stretched flat along the guard, 
one arm dragging in the water. “Jo! Try again to 
get loose!” he shouted louder as the figure did not 
move. 

With a vicious kick, he spun the door around so 
that he could seize Jo’s shoulder, turn him over—and 
discover that he was barely alive. 

Strangely the flames licked along inches from his 
body but did not touch him. Only at his left foot, 
pinned in a mass of broken chairs and railing, did the 
fire roar dangerously. With an agonizing effort, Bill 
jerked himself onto the guard, kneeled precariously 
near Jo’s side, battled forward to where he could kick 
at the wreckage that held that pinioned left foot. 

But it would not give. Hard as Bill flailed out 
with hands or feet, he gained nothing, and he finally 
sank down beside his friend in defeat. 

“Jo! Jo!” he cried. “Can’t you help me? Please, 

Jo!” 

But his cry was enveloped in a new sound, a rap' 



no 


Pilot on the River 


idly swelling, grinding, grating roar above them. As 
it rose louder and louder, the Magnolia slowly tilted 
to starboard. 

In a flash Bill Wingate shot to his feet, seized Jo’s 
waist in a death grip and threw his weight over the 
side. For an instant the two forms hung there—then 
plunged into the wreckage in the river channel. 

As they fell, then sank into the merciful, cool 
river, Bill battled to keep his eyes open, to summon 
the strength that must bring him and Jo to shore. 
But he could not. Suddenly he was swallowed up in 
the blackness. And knew no more. 





CONVALESCENCE 

Squirming uncomfortably, Bill felt a hard surface 
under his shoulder blades. A strange odor stung his 
nostrils as he inhaled deeply and shook himself 
awake. 

Above his head stretched a low, raftered ceiling. 
He rolled over onto one side, winced at bruises on 
elbow and hip as he scanned the rows of still, blan¬ 
keted figures stretched on the floor about him. Sun¬ 
light, filtering through shutters against square-paned 
windows, accented strangely a doctor and two 
women bending over one of the improvised beds, 
whispering almost inaudibly. 


in 









112 


Pilot on the River 


Obviously this was the main room of a tavern. 
Through an archway, Bill could see a bar on the far 
wall of another room. Stiffly he slid out of his blam 
kets, got to his feet and peered through a nearby 
shutter. Far below lay Natchez-Under'The'Hill. The 
townspeople must have heard the explosion of the 
Magnolia and brought her refugees up to the city. 

Quietly, Bill turned and made for the door lead' 
ing out onto the porch. He got it open without dis' 
turbing the group in the far comer of the dim room. 

Out on the porch, the brisk air of an early summer 
morning cleared his head at once. What a welcome 
change it was over the close, stuffy mixture of liquor 
and antiseptic that filled the long room indoors! He 
eased himself into one of the deep chairs and leaned 
back happily. 

“You’re a difficult patient, young man,’’ a voice 
broke into his thoughts. “A lad that’s gone through 
what you went through last night should still be rest' 
ing in bed.” 

Bill looked up, then jumped to his feet as he rec' 
ognized the speaker. 

“Good morning, Mr. Harrison,” he bowed. “But 
how do you happen to be here? It’s nice to see you.” 

“I’m here on business,” he went on, “And you’re 
fortunate to be able to see me, William Wingate.” 



Convalescence 




He smiled kindly. “You had hardly reached shore 
when you collapsed and they pulled you in last night. 
After saving Josiah Hartley’s life. We were wor' 
ried—” 

“Is Jo all right?” Bill interrupted excitedly, forget' 
ting manners in his concern. 

Mr. Harrison again smiled graciously. “You like 
him a great deal, don’t you, my boy?” 

“Yes. Yes, of course. But how is he?” 

“Nothing to worry about. His leg is badly sprained 
and bruised, and he’s pretty thoroughly tuckered out. 
But there were no fractures and nothing crushed. 
Rest and quiet are about all he needs. You could use 
some of that yourself. Even heroes need it, you 
know.” 

Bill nodded, then asked: “How about Andrew Lex' 
ington and Capt. Merriman? And the Magnolia ? Tell 
me about them.” 

Mr. Harrison raised a reproving hand, shook his 
head decisively. “I’ll tell you about everything on 
one condition,” he said firmly. “And I know that 
your father—and your mother, if she were here— 
would make the same stipulation.” 

“Yes, sir,” Bill replied meekly. 

“That condition is that you and Jo Hartley should 
come to Oaknoll until he is able to go back to work. 



Pilot on the River 


n± 

Mrs. Harrison and Constance would be most pleased 
to have you both.” 

“But I have to go back to work right away—that 
is, as soon as Mr. Lexington gets another berth.” 

“You needn’t worry about that. I’ve talked with 
Mr. Lexington already, and he wants to talk to you. 
He’s down under the hill at the levee with Capt. 
Merriman now. If you’ll wait long enough to have 
a cup of coffee and some breakfast, you can go down 
and see them. And the store on the comer up the 
hill will give you fresh clothing. I’ve already talked 
with them.” 

Feeling new strength after the generous breakfast 
Mr. Harrison extracted with a miraculous combina- 
tion of flattery and command from the coal-black 
chef. Bill hurried down to the store, then to the land¬ 
ing. The storekeeper had insisted that Mr. Harrison 
had instructed him to charge the clothes to him, but 
Bill finally forced the merchant to take part of Yankee 
Jack’s farewell present. 

Bill found Capt. Merriman and Andrew Lexing¬ 
ton, bedraggled and still not entirely dry, sitting dis¬ 
consolately on a cotton bale looking out at the 
charred hulk of the Magnolia that lay, half sunk, 
just above the levee. Obviously they had not yet 
been to bed, for their heavy-lidded eyes seemed to 



Convalescence 


«5 

see nothing as they stared wordlessly up the river. 

“Hello, Son,” Capt. Merriman greeted dully. The 
pilot did not look up. 

Bill longed to say something that would make the 
master forget the loss of the Magnolia and the bodies 
that still lay at the bottom of the wide Mississippi. 
But he knew that no words could really help. Em' 
barrassed, he waited for one of the others to con' 
tinue. 

“You’d better go up to Harrison’s,” the pilot finally 
spoke. “I’m going down to New Orleans on the next 
packet and get another boat. Had a Railroad Line 
offer last week. I’ll send for you as soon as I can. 
Capt. Merriman wants you to stay with them until 
young Hartley is able to go back to work.” 

“Yes, sir. But you’ll send for me in two or three 
weeks, won’t you?” 

“Don’t worry about Andy, Bill,” the captain put 
in. “No pilot could give up a cub that kept his head 
the way you did last night. And as soon as I get my 
next boat built, you’re all coming back with me. You 
and Andy and Jo and all the rest of the Magnolia’s 
crew—all the rest that were saved,” he finished 
lamely. 

“That’s right,” Lexington put in hastily. “Now 
you get back to the tavern and write letters to your 



n6 


Pilot on the River 


dad and Jo’s uncle in Memphis so that they’ll go up 
on the next upriver boat and get there before they 
have time to worry much about you. And take this 
dix note,” he dug out a roll of rather damp paper 
money and peeled off a teivdollar bill. 

“I don’t need it,” Bill began to protest. 

“You’re still taking orders from me, even though 
you’re not in a pilothouse,” the pilot retorted angrily. 

“Now take it and do as I tell you. Shove off now! 
I’ll find a boat where they can take Hartley on with 
us.” 

Bill started away, but Capt. Merriman stopped 
him, laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. “We’re 
all right, Son,” he said kindly. “We’re pretty worn 
out and grumpy now, but Andy’s just as proud of 
you as I am. Now run along and have a good time at 
the plantation.” 

Rolling over the smooth, hard mud surface of the 
Natchez Trace that afternoon in the Harrison’s shin' 
ing carriage, Bill did not see the spirited pair of bays 
or the neat livery of the driver. Mr. Harrison lay 
back in one comer of the seat and Bill was left alone 
to think back over his harrowing experience. Jo 
would be brought out later on a stretcher after a last 
visit from the doctor. 



Convalescence 


117 


The future seemed anything but bright. Of course, 
Lexington would probably find a berth in short order, 
a pilot like him always could. But this delay meant 
Bill would have to wait just that much longer before 
he could get his license and start earning money. 
Watching freight on the New Orleans and St. Louis 
levees brought a few dollars at the upper and lower 
ends of each trip, but this money had to go mostly 
for miscellaneous expenses. He took an oilskin bag 
from his pocket and pulled out his bankbook. One 
hundred and ten dollars. Only ten dollars added to 
the deposit Mr. Harrison had made for him. Now 
there would be nothing coming in for at least a 
month. 

Then there was that rumor that a spy from the 
North had brought about the explosion of the 
Magnolia by anchoring down the safety valve because 
some of the kitchen crew were slaves owned by Capt. 
Merriman. Whether the rumor were true or not— 
and there would never be any way of proving it now 
that the valve was shattered and the boilers a mass 
of gnarled iron—Bill could see that this enmity be' 
tween factory owners and workers in the North and 
planters and farmers of the agricultural, easydiving 
South might grow to fatal proportions. Actual proof 
had been discovered of at least two steamboats carry' 



n8 


Pilot on the River 


ing slaves being blown up by violent anti-slavery 
spies. Whatever the outcome of the nation being 
split into two sections that bitterly opposed one an¬ 
other might be, the struggle would certainly be a 
costly one that might cripple steamboating as well as 
every other business. 

Bill thought back to his talks with Jo about this 
very question and to Jo’s fears of how it would turn 
out. In the few short months since he had known 
the young engineer, the situation had grown worse 
and worse. 

Suddenly Bill realized he should have refused to 
come to Oaknoll. Hospitable as Mr. Harrison might 
have been, Bill knew he should not have run the 
risk of letting slip some remark that would arouse 
one who felt so strongly the differences between the 
North and South. Also, Bill thought regretfully, the 
son of a down-East Yankee should be wise enough 
not to want to see the daughter of a Southern planter 
as badly as he wanted to see Constance again. Yet 
he could not supress his happy anticipation. 

Abruptly, the rig swerved to the right and upward 
into a private road. Mr. Harrison snapped erect. 

“This is our property here, Bill,” he explained. 
“Look up ahead.” 

Bill could not resist exclaiming over the scene that 



Convalescence 


119 

met his eyes. The road seemed like a tunnel through 
immense graceful live oak trees draped with festoons 
of Spanish moss. Wide ribbons of close'clipped grass 
stretched out through rows of great trunks broken 
here and there by formal gardens of gorgeously bril- 
liant roses. It all ended in a spacious turn-around at 
the foot of the sloping, magnolia-walled mall that led 
up to the house. 

Even from the exterior of Oaknoll, Bill could un¬ 
derstand why the Harrisons could take so calmly the 
grandeurs of the Magnolia. Tall and imposing, faced 
with refreshing white columns, their home seemed to 
breath luxury, refined elegance. 

“I had Isaac stop at the foot of the walk here 
because I thought you might like to see the house 
through the mall,” Mr. Harrison explained. “Do you 
like it?” 

“It’s grand,” Bill breathed. “Isn’t it terribly big?” 

“Twenty-eight rooms, with slave houses for a 
hundred families in the rear.” 

Just then the gleaming white front door swung 
open, and Constance Harrison, heedless of her wide 
hoop skirt, hurried out to meet them. 

“Are you all right, Mr. Wingate?” she asked, first 
of all. 

“Perfectly,” Bill laughed, happy at her interest. 



120 


Pilot on the River 


“Jo Hartley is a little banged up, but he’ll be all right 
soon.” 

“I’m sorry about him,” she was instantly contrite, 
then brightened. “But Lucy is coming soon to visit 
for a few weeks, so perhaps she’ll be able to make 
him happier.” 

“I’m sure she will,” Bill knew he spoke the truth 
in that reply. 

“Ever since I heard that the Magnolia had exploded 
I’ve been worrying.” 

“Come, come, Daughter,” an older woman, ob¬ 
viously Mrs. Harrison, appeared. “Have Joel show 
your friend to his room so that he can wash the 
Natchez Trace off his hands and face. And you might 
also introduce him to me.” 

After meeting Constance’s mother. Bill happily let 
the girl take his arm and lead him through the door 
to the wide curving stairway. 

Leaving Joel and closing the door. Bill turned to 
look over his room. 

“What can Ah do for yo'all?” a Negro voice called, 
as a grinning black face appeared in an inside door' 
way. 

“Marcellus!” Bill rushed over to the darkey. “How 
did you get down here? When did you leave 
Quincy?” 




Convalescence 


121 


“Marse Bill!” the Negro beamed. “Ah’se sure glad 
to see yo! Ah’se yo’ private boy down here.” 

“Good. But what happened that you’re here? Did 
Judge Harkness sell you?” 

The lanky black shook his curly head sadly. 

“Sho’ done just that. Mary and all the chillun is 
still back at Harkness’. Ah’se been down here ever 
since you left home.” 

“How do they treat you?” 

The darkey put a finger over his lips, “Don’t say 
that so loud, Marse Bill. Summun might hear. 

“Dey treats me fine. But dat boss of de field nig- 
gahs gits pow’ful brutal with that whip sometimes.” 

“Well, you won’t have to work hard while you’re 
here with me, Marcellus. And maybe, some time, 
you can get back to Mary and the children.” 

Bill wanted to do more to help this kind-hearted 
slave who had been so good to him in Quincy, but 
he knew he could not interfere with Mr. Harrison’s 
property. It seemed horribly unkind to separate a 
man, even a black man, from his family and sell him 
down the river. Yet, when Mr. Harrison spent hun¬ 
dreds of dollars to buy the lifetime labor of a slave, 
he should not have that property taken away from 
him so that he had nothing to show for the money 
he had spent. 



122 


Pilot on the River 


The problem whirled confusingly through Bill’s 
mind as he lay down to rest for a while. It seemed 
now as if every situation he faced brought up a new 
and insurmountable obstacle. The time when he 
could become a pilot and earn enough money to buy 
a steamboat seemed hopelessly far away. If only there 
were somebody to whom he could talk and get this 
whole tangle straightened out! 

Bill Wingate did not realize that the problems that 
were upsetting him were baffling the best men in 
America and would cost the nation agony and blood' 
shed before they could be settled. 





Chapter X 

A DISAGREEMENT 


Carefully Bill climbed the great stairway and made 
for his room. Not for the world would he have 
abused the delicious feeling behind his happy smile. 
For he had just finished the grandest breakfast of 
his life. 

It was sheer bliss to stretch out on his back, sink 
into the soft mattress and dream of those fluffy bis¬ 
cuits, toothsome side meat, fragrant coffee. The 
sound of Marcellus coming into the room could not 
disturb him. 

“Massa, Bill,” Marcellus spoke up. “Massa Bill.” 

123 


124 


Pilot on the River 


“Yes—Oh, it’s you, Marcellus.” He sank back on 
the bed again. 

“Massa Bill, Mis’ Constance’ mammy done told me 
you-all was to see the plantation this momin’. Ah got 
some ridin’ clothes from her.” 

“I’m to ride with Miss Constance?” 

“Thass it, Mistuh Bill.” 

“Lead the way!” 

The next two hours brought Bill Wingate into a 
new world. Astride a great black hunter, he trotted 
at Constance’s side through unbelievable paths of 
delicately tinted roses, rich magnolia blooms, caverns 
of moss'draped live oak. 

Then he discovered a new Constance, an entirely 
different yet equally as fascinating a girl as the one he 
had known on the Magnolia and in New Orleans. 
The quiet, kindly manner was still there, but from 
behind it shone a rare courage, a strength Bill had 
not known before. Never had he believed that a 
young girl could ride so well, so bravely, yet with 
such dignity. 

When they left the bams and finally broke into 
open country, Constance called over her shoulder: 

“Here’s our hunting ground. Shall we make a run 
of it?” 

Hardly had Bill nodded in reply when the girl 




“Shall we ma\e a run of it?” 



















A Disagreement 


12 7 


touched her tall chestnut hunter on the flank. Away 
she flew with Bill riding hard to keep her in sight. 
Over rough fields, soaring across rail fence jumps, 
they galloped for half an hour until Bill was nearly 
ready to drop with exhaustion, even though he was 
a reasonably good horseman. 

Luckily Constance slowed down as she headed for 
a clump of trees to her right. By the time Bill caught 
up she had dismounted and was tying the chestnut to 
an overhanging limb. Flushed, smiling with excite¬ 
ment and pleasure, she ran up to Bill, seized his hand 
as he tied his bridle. 

“Over this way,” she urged, tugging at his arm. 
“I want to show you something, a private spot of 
mine.” 

It was impossible not to catch her mood, not to 
be as gay as she. “I’m with you,” he chanted, hur¬ 
rying along beside her through the trees, then sud¬ 
denly stopping as they reached the top of a small 
hill. 

“Right over there—look and see how you like it,” 
she pointed with her crop. “I always like to come 
here to rest during my morning ride.” 

“It’s—it’s wonderful,” Bill stuttered, for he had 
been taken completely by surprise. He was sure the 
river lay far off to the left. Instead, it stretched out 



128 


Pilot on the River 


into the distance, like a map of green and silver, hum 
dreds of feet below him. 

“Come, sit down. You can share my private log,” 
Constance went on, enjoying his amazement. “Tell 
me how you like Oaknoll Plantation.” 

“It's hard to believe my own eyes,” Bill returned 
slowly after a moment. “It’s another world from the 
river or the towns I’ve known.” 

“Yes, I suppose it is. Sometimes I wish I weren’t 
so used to it so that I could see it as a stranger does. 
And still I wouldn’t give up an hour of the happy 
times I’ve had here.” 

“I still can’t imagine,” Bill spoke half to himself, 
as he stretched out on the soft moss, “I still can’t 
see why your father would invite me up here. I’m 
just a cub pilot from a small river town.” 

“But, Bill, can’t you see that is why Dad—and— 
and I—like you especially. Of course, you were brave 
at New Orleans, and in the explosion. We could 
never repay that. But what we like best is that it 
doesn’t make any difference that we’re plantation 
owners and you’re not. You’d be a gentleman no 
matter what your station in life.” 

“It’s very kind of you to say that, Miss Constance. 
But it’s you—and your father—that make it so easy 
for me to feel at home and to act as if I knew what 



A Disagreement 


129 


was the right thing to do in a fine house like yours."' 

Constance laughed quietly. “Don’t be a goose. 
You had Daddy fooled completely until that dinner 
in New Orleans when you told him your father was 
a storekeeper on the Quincy levee—which is no dis¬ 
grace,” she finished gently. 

“But Daddy is grand about everything,” she went 
on as Bill did not answer. “I wish he weren’t so 
worried all the time.” 

“Worried about what? Anything I could do to 
help?” 

“No, it’s just those horrid politics. Those Yankees 
in Congress talk so much against slavery, and our 
senator comes home and upsets Daddy with all their 
talk.” 

“It’s a shame,” Bill agreed. “I’m from the North, 
and you and your father and Jo are from the South. 
We would be on the opposite side of the battle if a 
war came of all this talk. It makes me almost afraid 
to speak to your father.” 

“Oh, Bill!” Constance’s gloved hand fell on his 
shoulder. “You wouldn’t say anything that would 
upset him, or turn him against you? Would you?” 

“I hope not. The subject of the North and South 
is mighty dangerous. But why?” 

“You should know without asking,” she smiled, 



130 


Pilot on the River 


then stretched out her hand. “Pull me up. I think 
it’s high time we finished our ride. I had to plead 
with Mother to let me take you in the first place.” 

A month passed at Oaknoll in a whirl of happy 
impressions. Lolling in the garden with Jo, Con' 
stance and Lucy chatting gaily as they picked great 
bouquets for the tables; consuming heaping portions 
of succulent dishes at the great dining table as a tiny 
Negro boy cooled them by moving to and fro the 
lyre-shaped fan hung from the ceiling above the table; 
laughing at Jo’s plight when the fan moved too 
swiftly and blew candlewax on to his hotbread; danc¬ 
ing with Constance in the long ballroom under two 
magnificent crystal candelabras; thrilling to Mrs. Har¬ 
rison’s full, rich contralto singing Negro lullabies with 
Constance furnishing hushed accompaniment—every 
minute was crammed with good things. 

Only one incident marred Bill’s complete happi¬ 
ness. One evening after Mr. Harrison had finished a 
disappointing visit with his friend, the local senator, 
just returned from Washington, Bill’s Marcellus had 
clumsily bumped into the planter in the second floor 
hallway, and Mr. Harrison had dressed him down 
soundly. Just then Bill came out of his room, and, 
not seeing his host down the hall, asked the Negro 
what had happened. 



A Disagreement 


131 

“Never mind, sir,” Mr. Harrison wheeled and re¬ 
turned with long, purposeful strides. “I’ll take care 
of this ungrateful wretch in my own way. I see that 
you Yankees don’t approve of the way we conduct 
our homes here in the South.” 

Before Bill could speak, Mr. Harrison had turned 
his back and stalked off. 

Next day, as he rode out with Constance, Lucy 
and Jo, Bill knew that the incident had reached Con¬ 
stance’s ears. On the surface, she was no different 
than always. Only Bill could realize the strain she 
felt, the fear that something might endanger the bond 
that had drawn them closer, day by day. 

In that way, it was a relief when a letter came 
from Andrew Lexington instructing him to be ready 
with Jo to ship aboard the Alex Scott when she passed 
Natchez on the upriver trip. 

Yet, it was hard to roll down the long avenue of 
live oaks, watching the two figures waving from 
Oaknoll’s balcony grow smaller and smaller, then to 
disappear behind a bend in the road. Jo slipped slow¬ 
ly back into the seat of the open carriage and turned 
to Bill. 

“Do you feel as badly about leaving Constance as 
I do about leaving Lucy?” he asked. 

Bill nodded slowly, despairingly. There had been 



132 


Pilot on the River 


an unmistakable finality in Mr. Harrison’s farewell, 
even though he had apologized for the incident in 
the hall. Bill knew without being told that his host 
would not approve of his seeing Constance again, 
that the damage was done. 

“I know how you feel,” Jo sympathized. “But you 
know, to be polite, you must write her and Mrs. Har* 
rison, thanking them for their hospitality. Constance 
might reply to that.” 

“At least I can try,” Bill answered far more opti' 
mistically than he felt. 

Life aboard the Alex Scott kept Bill even busier 
than when he had been on the Magnolia. He wrote 
grateful letters to Mrs. Harrison and Constance on 
his first ofbwatch after he came aboard. But his 
chief gave him more and more steering to do on the 
uptrips in spite of the rapidly falling river. Running 
as part of the Railroad Line, the Scott had to make 
connections with the new steam cars, and Capt. 
Switzer was often forced to ask almost impossible 
speeds from his pilots. The boat would leave one 
landing as soon as a train arrived and, if the train was 
late—which it often was—would have to race to 
another landing to arrive before another connecting 
train would depart. Such strenuous running was bad 



A Disagreement^ 


i33 

enough in high water when there was plenty of depth 
to the river. But in low water when the most skillful 
pilots ran a good chance of grounding, each trip be' 
came a nightmare. 

Toward the end of a trip, four hours of sleep be' 
tween watches was hardly enough, and chief pilots 
often depended on their cubs to run the boat while 
they rested on the high bench to prepare for the 
more intricate and dangerous crossings and shallows. 

In quick succession Bill learned how to take the 
crew out in the sounding boat and mark a channel; 
how to squeeze inches off a treacherous rounding' 
about; how to read depths from the appearance of 
the water and how to steer by the chanting song of 
the starboard and larboard leadsmen. When Jo 
brought a letter carrying a Natchez postmark from 
the office one day, Bill was almost too tired to read it. 

“Dear Bill: (It said) Mother and I were both 
happy to have your notes and to know how you 
enjoyed your visit with us. 

“I wish I could say more about how I enjoyed it 
myself, but I don’t think I have to. You know that 
for yourself. 

“That is why it hurts so to ask you not to write 
me again or ask to see me again. But we must try 
to wait until it will no longer displease Daddy that 



i34 


Pilot on the River 


you are from the North when we are from the South. 

“You must understand, Bill. And what we have 
together must wait—I hope not too long.” 

That was all Bill wanted to read. He packed the 
letter into his bag and vowed not to look at it again 
until he could enter Mr. Harrison’s home as a friend, 
not an enemy. 







Chapter XI 

GOOD-BYE TO MR. LEXINGTON 

Discouragement, the moments when the future 
seemed hopeless, grew more and more frequent as 
Bill Wingate fought through one strenuous trip after 
another on the Alex Scott. He did almost all of the 
steering now, carried on whether Andrew Lexington 
was asleep or awake, in the pilothouse or out. But 
the prospect of soon becoming a licensed pilot seemed 
far less attractive than when he first came aboard the 
Magnolia. In the few months since he had stayed at 
Oaknoll, hatred between the North and South rose 
to violent proportions. South Carolina left the Union 


i35 




136 


Pilot on the River 


after the election of Abraham Lincoln as President. 

Even now the group of shippers and visiting pilots 
that shared the high bench with Andrew Lexington 
argued the subject heatedly. 

“Now, gentlemen,” Bill heard his chief’s decisive 
tones break into the clamor, “you’re all talking about 
secession. But you know that’s only the immediate 
trouble. Those Yankees have got factories and lots 
of money. They’re cutting into things at Washing¬ 
ton, putting tariffs on imported goods, making every¬ 
thing harder for us in the South which doesn’t do 
any manufacturing.” 

“But cotton is more important than any manufac¬ 
tured article the North can produce,” one tall, beard¬ 
ed planter insisted. 

“Cotton is important,” Lexington admitted. “And 
I’m loyal to the South. But I still say the South ought 
to be careful. We’re entitled to our rights, but we 
ought to listen to reason.” 

“Reason!” another Southerner boomed. “That 
man Lincoln will ruin this country. South Carolina 
was right when she seceded from the Union! And 
the rest of the South will soon follow!” 

“Even though he did turn a pilot’s wheel on the 
Mississippi, Lincoln is a rotten Abolitionist,” one of 
the pilots charged. 



Good-bye to Mr. Lexington 


137 


“I don’t like his ideas, either,” Lexington admitted. 
“But the South can’t afford to start trouble. Cotton 
isn’t enough.” 

“You said you’re loyal to the South,” another 
shouted. “But you don’t sound that way. I demand 
you explain yourself.” 

“I’m sorry, gentlemen,” the pilot bowed and took 
the wheel from Bill. “I meant only to be helpful. 
You must excuse me now. This is a difficult crossing.” 

As Bill yielded the wheel, he remembered another 
of his chief’s statements: “The South is broke and 
doesn’t know it.” 

Most of the South did secede and Mississippi, 
Florida, Alabama, Louisiana, Georgia and Texas 
formed the Confederate States of America with JeL 
ferson Davis as President. Two months later, about 
a month after Lincoln’s inauguration, the South fired 
on Ft. Sumter and on April 5th, Lincoln called for 
75,000 troops to oppose the secession of the South' 
em states and their newly formed Confederacy. 

The Alex Scott was tied up in the half'Union, half' 
Confederate city of St. Louis when a discouraged, 
frightened Bill Wingate took a table in a riverfront 
cafe with Jo Hartley and Andrew Lexington. All 
were tight'lipped, worried. Many had said that se- 



138 


Pilot on the River 


cession would be overcome in three months at the 
most, but Bill’s chief had provided ample reasons 
why the struggle should run into years. Tennessee 
and Arkansas had joined the Confederacy. Battles 
in the East already showed tremendous Southern 
strength and tenacity. Northern blundering. 

Though little had happened in organized fighting 
near the Mississippi, steamboats had been fired upon 
from the shore, pilots killed at the wheel by snipers. 
No longer was a northern boat safe in Southern 
waters or a Yankee boatman safe on a Southern craft. 

Thus Bill’s dream of bringing his father back onto 
the river on his own boat had been slaughtered as 
brutally as those men who lay dead and dying from 
their last upriver trip. Even if he could get a berth 
and earn a good salary, even if he could at last buy 
a boat, it would be futile to do so and let it be de¬ 
stroyed in guerilla warfare or by his friends who had 
enlisted. 

Only one course seemed to be left open to him — 
to go back home defeated and wait, living on his 
father’s poor income, until the war could be settled 
and the river again opened to commerce. His inside 
pockets hung heavy with one hundred and twenty 
dollars of savings in gold he had drawn from the 
New Orleans bank to deposit in St. Louis, but this 



Good-bye to Mr. Lexington 


239 


meant only sixty dollars saved for each of the two 
years he had been on the river. Wearily he confessed 
to Lexington and Jo that he planned to leave for 
Quincy the next day. 

“Did the captain say we had to leave the boat?” 
Lexington asked. 

“No, but the boat won’t make any more trips for 
awhile, and I imagine he’ll let us go any time now.” 

“Better wait,” the pilot advised. “It’s your only 
chance. I just heard over at the Association that 
Capt. Merriman sold his new Magnolia for the Galena 
trade the day after she was launched. If you leave 
the Alex Scott, all you can do is go home. Jo and I 
are leaving tonight to enlist at Memphis.” 

“Enlist? With the South?” Bill cried. 

“I’m afraid so,” Jo said seriously. “It’s our duty. 
I know how you feel. Bill. But—come with us.” 

Bill shook his head slowly. The bottom seemed to 
be dropping out of everything. He’d never thought 
of Jo and Lexington leaving him and enlisting, as they 
would naturally do, with the South. 

“I’m sorry,” he finally replied. “But it doesn’t 
seem right for me to fight against my own part of 
the country. It’s—it’s—” he gestured angrily. “It’s 
all silly. I can’t feel strongly enough about either side 
to want to fight for it. I can see why Mr. Harrison 



140 


Pilot on the River 


and other Southerners oppose the North. And I can 
see what the North hates about slavery and Southern 
statesmen. But I can’t hate you two just because I 
was bom a Yankee—any more than you hate me be' 
cause you came from Memphis in the South.” 

“We’re probably not going to fight as soldiers, 
Son,” Lexington put in quietly. “The Confederacy 
will find plenty of use for pilots and other steamboat' 
men. We’re going down to Memphis to enlist. Does 
it matter greatly to you what flag you’re under when 
you’re steering a steamboat?” 

Miserably Bill realised it did make a difference. He 
felt no ill will toward the South, but something forced 
him to tell his chief that joining in a war against his 
home state was out of the question. He could see no 
reason for fighting on the side of the North, yet en¬ 
listing against the North was unthinkable. 

“But what can I do?” he asked Lexington hope' 
lessly. “How can I get work if you leave?” 

“You can be a pilot pretty soon,” Lexington said 
slowly, waiting for the effect it would have on Bill. 

“No. You’re making fun of me!” 

“Hardly. Your application with proper signatures 
has been filed and will be accepted. The license itself 
will come to the captain of the Alex Scott. He’ll give 
it to you. I told him all about it.” 




pW&Si'jr'S'i: 

OTKSttSBxna 




bjbbmbbbi 


■g&mzzsz. 




^vJ.^AW/V 


stiasa^ 




RH 

MmiM; 


“But what can 1 do?” 









































































Good-bye to Mr. Lexington 


i43 


Bill tried to speak but could manage only a hollow 
croak. Then the happy moment was eclipsed in 
gloom. What good would a license for the Mississippi 
River do, now that the South held most of it from 
St. Louis down? Now that the only commerce was 
transportation of troops and war supplies? Now that 
most of the packets lay idle at St. Louis and Cairo? 

“Let me give you some good advice,” Lexington 
spoke up sharply, commandingly. “Then we’ll drop 
the subject of war and have a proper farewell dinner.” 

Both Bill and Jo agreed heartily. There was no 
subject that they would be more willing to eliminate 
completely. 

“Just this,” the pilot went on. “And it’s for Bill’s 
benefit.” He turned to his ex'cub. “You just keep 
close to the Scott and the Railroad Line boats. They’ll 
have plenty of use for steersmen and pilots and will 
pay wages for them. You won’t have to enlist in 
either the Army or the Navy. There's still plenty of 
contracts yet to be let to steamboats for transporta- 
tion of troops and supplies. Those contracts will pay 
good money to everybody, and the Alex Scott won’t 
be idle if there’s that kind of business to be had. 
That may be the kind of thing Jo and I will be doing 
down below on the lower river, in case we don’t en- 
list in the Navy. You might as well make those wages 



144 


Pilot on the River 


as anybody eke. Stay around and give it a trial, any' 
way.” 

Bill would rather have had nothing to do with the 
war, but neither did he want to go back to Quincy 
defeated. Staying on the Scott seemed to be the only 
way out. “All right,” he told his chief. “I’ll give it 
a trial anyway.” 

“Now we’re supposed to forget battles,” Jo 
laughed, “but I can’t help telling you what I heard 
about Sam Clemens. Or have you heard it already?” 

Bill and Lexington shook their heads. 

“Well, you know he skipped out right after the 
South started taking pot shots at pilots. Claimed he 
didn’t care for the atmosphere up in a pilothouse. 
I guess he was afraid of lead poisoning.” 

“That was a poor excuse for a joke,” Bill carped. 

“I know it isn’t up to Sam’s jokes,” Jo admitted. 
“But he won’t be around here to criticize it. Some of 
the boys up in Hannibal organized a company of in' 
fantry, and he was in it—until his brother got ap' 
pointed as secretary to the governor of Nevada. Now 
Sam decided he’d prefer Nevada climate to the Mis' 
sissippi Valley, and he left his company without the 
War Department’s permission.” 

“Not much danger of the War Department going 
to Nevada after him,’’ Lexington smiled. “But I 



Good-bye to Mr. Lexington 


145 


reckon he’ll give the natives there plenty to laugh 
about, even though he’ll probably make a much bet' 
ter silver miner than he did a soldier.” 

“Don’t fancy carrying a gun myself,” Jo yawned. 

“You don’t fancy carrying much of anything ex¬ 
cept a good dinner,” the pilot added. “And if we 
don’t order it right now, we’ll probably have you 
making some more poor jokes.” 

Sizzling fried chicken soon occupied the three, and 
finally, the trip back to the Alex Scott could be accom¬ 
plished only by easy stages at a slow pace. The laugh¬ 
ter and good fellowship of the dinner carried them 
out onto the levee again as Jo and Lexington climbed 
aboard a small downriver packet and waved good¬ 
bye. Bill sent them off with a broad grin, wished 
them good luck as the boat swung down into the 
channel. Yet, it took all the determination he could 
muster to get back to his cabin on the Scott and write 
to his father about his license and his decision to stay 
on in St. Louis. It was hard not to drop into his 
bunk and give way to the loneliness he already felt, 
not to write that he wanted to come back home 
where war was far away, where Confederate flags 
did not hang from half the business houses and 
homes. 

Still, something within Bill Wingate warned him 



Pilot on the River 



that the trouble he faced now would become insig' 
nificant in the face of the problems to come and that 
he now had to face the world as a man, not as a boy. 











Chapter XII 

THE ALEX SCOTT, TRANSPORT 

Autumn chill spiced the early evening air as Bill 
Wingate climbed the pilothouse ladder of the Alex 
Scott and poked up the fire in the potbellied stove. 
The last rays of clear November sunshine highlighted 
the vast flotilla of barges and steamers, gunboats and 
hospital ships that made up the Cairo base and served 
as barracks for most of the land forces stationed at 
the junction of the Mississippi and Ohio Rivers. 

A different, an older, more confident Bill Wingate 
was this man from the boy who had watched Jo 
Hartley and Andrew Lexington leave for the South 


i47 






148 


Pilot on the River 


only a few months ago. Carrying stolidly the re' 
sponsibilities of a licensed pilot, this lad, who had 
watched his country being tom into two nations, now 
showed no sign that he had yet to escape from his 
’teens. Knowing that he had to make good now, 
that hundreds of lives depended upon his skill at the 
wheel of the Alex Scott, Bill faced the world more 
determinedly than ever. The firmness with which 
he thrust a lean jaw forward into hard lines, with 
which he carried square, muscular shoulders proved 
that determination. 

In one tanned hand he held a letter from his father. 
Before opening the envelope, he climbed onto the 
high bench to scan thoughtfully the scene below him. 
He was thinking of the changes in Cairo, and the 
river, during the past action-packed months; how the 
frightened Union Troops poured back into Washing¬ 
ton from their disastrous rout at Bull Run in August; 
how Gen. McClellan pecked irritably at the South¬ 
ern forces in the East with negligible results; how 
Capt. Eads from Mississippi was just completing the 
building of a fleet of shallow-draft river ironclads at 
Carondelet, Missouri and Mound City, Illinois; how 
Gen. Grant with wooden gunboats occupied Padu¬ 
cah, Kentucky, on the Ohio River; and how the 
Nationals planned to move down the river from 



The Alex Scott, Transport 


M9 


Cairo and up from New Orleans to cut the South off 
from their food supply west of the Mississippi River. 

Bill could not bring himself to feel pride in this 
great armed strength growing before his eyes, as 
blacksmiths and boat builders slaved in the floating 
shops anchored to the marshy shore. He had yet to 
discover a reason why he should enlist and thus 
actively pledge himself to help in carrying out the 
ambitions of the North. 

Slowly he pulled open the letter in his hand. Two 
weeks ago he had written to his father back in 
Quincy, trying to learn from him if it were his duty 
to join the Northern forces, if his father could 
straighten out his tangled loyalties. Bill read the 
letter: 

I can understand your confusion about the 
war because I feel the same way myself. Some 
of my best friends on the river, even some of 
the men here in Quincy, have joined the 
Southern Army. 

But there is one point you seem to have 
missed—you seem to have the impression that 
this is purely a war between North and South. 
This is not wholly true. You have forgotten 
that one of the aims of the North is to pre' 
serve the Union for which America fought in 



150 


Pilot on the River 


1776 and 1812. We are fighting to keep the 
United States from breaking up. War is no 
real way to settle a controversy, but, now that 
we are in it, I feel winning it is our only way 
to hold the states together. 

I don’t want to tell you whether or not to 
enlist. That is entirely up to you. I ask only 
that you keep the above point in mind and act 
as your sense of duty dictates. I fear the time 
will come when you will be needed as a Mis' 
sissippi pilot in the Navy, but the decision 
must be yours. 

Congratulations on that growing bank ao* 
count! 

Your loving father, 

Jack Wingate 

Bill gazed up from the letter thoughtfully. Un* 
doubtedly his father was right. The Union should 
be preserved at any cost. But he himself was valu* 
able at his post on the Alex Scott. 

“Wingate!” the mate’s voice snapped Bill back to 
the present. “We go down river tomorrow with 
troops aboard. Grant is planning a move around 
Columbus, Kentucky. Gunboats Tyler and Lexington 
are going to convoy. The Chancellor, Keystone, and 
Memphis will be the other transports. We’re taking 



The Alex Scott, Transport 


12 

about three thousand men, including a couple of com' 
panies of cavalry. Be running a cattle boat before 
we’re through with this confounded war.” 

The movement did not come as a surprise to Bill. 
For nearly a week, since the first of November, ru¬ 
mors had been filtering through Cairo that Gen. 
Grant would be sent against the river garrison at 
Columbus to dislodge the Confederates. Now, on 
November sixth, he was ordered to take the fort. 

In the pilothouse of the Alex Scott, Bill stood by 
the man on watch as they followed the Lexington 
and Tyler to a point about six miles above Columbus. 
There they landed and put ashore pickets who were 
to establish contacts with a Union force moving 
west from Paducah. 

Through the evening they lay well above the gar- 
rison and waited for daybreak. Bill knew the sensible 
thing would be to go below and get some sleep, but 
the harrowing air of suspense that kept the troops 
pacing up and down the decks made him restless. 

For Bill had yet to see his first battle. Although, 
at Cairo, he had been unable to escape seeing man' 
gled, tom men borne onto the hospital ships, their 
relatives searching each face in the long streams of 
stretchers, praying that their loved ones lay here 
injured rather than on the field of battle, dead. 



152 


Pilot on the River 


From the Scott and the other transports, a mere 
three thousand men, lightly armed, would face a 
much stronger Confederate army at the break of 
day, join with a small Paducah force against the mur' 
derous cannon of the Columbus batteries. 

The Lexington and Tyler were to protect the land' 
ing of troops and engage the shore batteries, but 
these sidewheel steamers barricaded with thick wood, 
slanted from above the boiler deck to the lower 
guards would provide little protection against iron 
cannon balls, or even persistent musket fire. A sin' 
gle cannon ball could sink a transport such as the 
Scott. 

About two in the morning, the enemy was dis' 
covered moving troops from Columbus across the 
river to a camp at Belmont on the Missouri side. At 
once Grant drew in his pickets on the Kentucky side 
and ordered the fleet to land about five miles above 
Belmont at the head of a long bend. 

Bill heaved a sigh of relief as he realized that they 
would be five miles away from the battle, when a 
messenger hurried into the pilothouse and addressed 
Bill’s partner. 

“The gunboat Tyler requires a pilot to stand by 
in case of emergency, sir. Will you volunteer?” 

The pilot shook his head slowly. “I’ve got a wife 



The Alex Scotty Transport 


153 


and three little ones,” he replied. “But if it’s abso- 
lutely necessary—” 

“I’ll go,” Bill heard himself saying in a trembling 
voice. “When do we start?” 

Young Wingate shuddered as he came aboard the 
built-over packet. He scanned the main deck, packed 
with cannon and gunners, and the woefully inade¬ 
quate wooden armor that protected them. 

It was eight o’clock by the time that the pilots 
had watched all the troops disembark and started 
down toward the batteries at Columbus. As soon 
as the soldiers disappeared over a hill, the guns aboard 
the Tyler and Lexington started hurling shells across 
the river at the fort to divert attention from the 
Union forces moving toward Belmont. 

Each shot jarred the Tyler from keel to smokestack. 
Closer and closer to the Columbus fort fell their 
shells until the Confederate gunners began to find 
the range of the gunboats. Wisely Commander 
Walke withdrew them in favor of the superior force 
on the Kentucky shore. 

On the Missouri side Bill could now see the Union 
men making costly progress through a maze of corn¬ 
fields, forest and marsh. As the exhausted gunners 
below him fought for air through the small gun- 
ports, he watched the blue-coated cavalry and infan- 



*54 


Pilot on the River 


tty of the Nationals batter the grey lines back into 
their camp, then over into the shelter of a steep bluff 
along the river. 

Again the Tyler and Lexington hurled more shells 
into the fort, then withdrew in a mass of fire and 
returned when the Southern batteries had paused. 
Now the boats moved in circles to confuse the en- 
emies’ gunners, hurling broadsides as fast as the pieces 
could be reloaded. 

Each shot seemed to come closer to the Tyler, 
maneuver as she might. 

Bill was kept frantically busy helping the pilot 
snatch the wheel down hard again and again, but 
they only confused their own gunners without evad¬ 
ing the fire of the enemy. When a cannon ball 
plunged through the side and deck of their boat and 
convinced the commander that they should with¬ 
draw, Bill was perfectly willing to leave. One man 
had been killed and several wounded when the 
vicious shot passed the cramped quarters on the 
main deck. Luckily the engines were not disabled 
and could still bring the boat upstream successfully. 

Now word came that the Union troops were es¬ 
caping to the boats as a superior Rebel detachment 
from across the river drove fiercely after them. The 
gunboats stood by to guard the embarking, ready to 



The Alex Scott, Transport 


155 


open fire on the enemy as soon as he appeared. 

Last of all, without protection, Gen. Grant gal¬ 
loped into sight on the bank just as the last stage was 
hauled aboard. Quickly a rouster threw out a plank. 
The general scuttled down the steep hill and clattered 
his horse onto the forecastle. Seconds later, the 
Southern troop appeared, but the transports had 
already started upstream. Quickly, the ready gun¬ 
ners on the Tyler and Lexington hauled on firing 
lanyards and crushed their enemy back from the 
banks to shelter. The transports escaped safely, but 
nearly lost their commander. Grant had thrown him¬ 
self on a couch in the captain’s room of the steamer 
as they pulled away, only to hurry out onto the deck 
to watch the departure. No sooner had he left the 
couch than a bullet pierced it from front to back. 

The entire Union forces rejoiced as they steamed 
back to Cairo. Though over four hundred men had 
been lost, and National forces been surrounded, they 
had fought their way through the enemy to the boats. 
For these were volunteer troops after their first bat¬ 
tle, and they felt the confidence of a brave fight. 
They seemed to forget the dead lying on the field 
at Belmont, the wounded whose groans even now 
formed an agonizing background for the revels of 
their rejoicing comrades. 



156 


Pilot on the River 


Bill could not drive those hours from his mind as 
he talked dully with one of the gunboat pilots at 
Cairo that night. 

“It’s too much for me,” he spoke as much to him¬ 
self as to his companion. “Coming down on Colum¬ 
bus there. A bright sunrise. Fresh, sweet air. The 
river bright in the sun. The boats driving down just 
as they used to, and then having it all tom into 
pieces by guns. Buried in black smoke.” 

“That’s war for you, Bill. We just have to take 
it and like it.” 

“I couldn’t ever like it. Seeing beautiful boats like 
the Scott , boats that carried the finest people on the 
river. Seeing them ripped and battered with rifle 
bullets and cannon balls, turned into filthy pens of 
muck and blood, men dying, others so badly hurt 
they wish they could die—it—it makes me—oh, I 
can’t go on another trip like that one today!” 

The other made no attempt to answer, only looked 
at Bill sympathetically. 

“What can I do?” the young pilot demanded. 
“Piloting is my only livelihood.” Then he seemed to 
steady himself. “But I guess I’m not the only pilot 
that doesn’t know what to do. And I suppose the 
only way to stop this war is to try to win it.” 

“Looks like it. We’re into it now and can’t get 



The Alex Scott, Transport 


157 


back out. Best thing is to see how fast we can stop 
it by winning it.” 

With an effort, Bill forced a smile onto his lips, 
snapped his right hand to forehead in a jaunty salute. 
“Aye, aye, admiral. Just watch me!” 







Chapter XIII 

IRONCLADS IN BATTLE 

The following winter that concluded the year 
1861 and started the second spring of the War 
brought William Wingate an experience that he 
would never forget. During January, Grant, Flag Offi' 
cer Foote and Gen. C. F. Smith made plans to cut the 
South’s line that extended east from Columbus, Ken' 
tucky, by opening up the Tennessee and Cumber' 
land Rivers. This would mean capturing Ft. Henry 
that lay up the Tennessee just below the Kentucky 
boundary, then moving troops east overland to Ft. 
Donelson on the Cumberland while the gunboats 
158 






Ironclads in Battle 


159 


looped back to that fort by way of the Ohio River. 

At last some of the ironclad gunboats constructed 
by Capt. Eads were finished, and Bill, for want of 
other work, shipped as a pilot on the Carondelet. 

The ironclads had the advantage of the Lexington 
and Tyler because they were stemwheelers covered 
on both sides and at bow and stem by plate iron 
2inches thick. They would make nine miles an 
hour and stood less chance of being disabled since 
their wheels moved within the iron casemates. The 
Carondelet carried three guns in ports pierced through 
her bow, two in ports in the stem and four broad' 
side guns in ports on each side. The boilers and ern 
gines, on the main deck, as did the guns, had the 
protection of a barricade of heavy timbers. The 
pilothouse could be entered by a ladder from the 
main deck and was protected as much as possible 
without interfering with the pilot’s vision. 

The sight of the gun deck on the Carondelet sick' 
ened Bill even more than had his first glimpse of the 
Tyler back at Belmont, Missouri. Hardly headroom 
was left between the decks, and the only light was 
that which came through the gunports. What an 
inferno this place would be when smoke started to 
puff back from the guns! Or balls and shells came 
through the ports or casemates! 




i6o 


Pilot on the River 


A clear, rather warm day greeted the flotilla on 
the sixth of February as they headed up the Ten' 
nessee to attack Ft. Henry. Troops had been landed 
on both sides of the river and were moving slowly 
through the rough country where all land not cov¬ 
ered with snow was tom with high river water. 

Under Flag Officer Foote, the fleet of seven gun¬ 
boats proceeded upriver, forming into two lines, the 
flagship Cincinnati flanked on her right by the Essex, 
and on the left by the Carondelet and St. Louis. Car¬ 
rying out the orders of Comm. Walke, Bill kept his 
partner advised of the spacing of their boat in rela¬ 
tion to the rest of the line, sighting across the stacks, 
looking astern to check on the Lexington, Tyler and 
Conestoga in the second line which was to arch its 
fire over that of the first row. Catching the eye of 
Marshall Ford, with whom he had become most 
attached during his stay in Cairo, Bill waved as he 
stood at the wheel of the Essex. Ford waved back 
gaily, and his enthusiasm warmed away some of that 
chill that already clutched at Bill’s heart. 

Below decks, Bill knew, were stationed the gun 
crews commanded by captains brought from the Reg¬ 
ular Navy ships on the coast. Now a hush settled 
over the entire boat as they waited anxiously for the 
first shot. 



Ironclads in Battle 


161 


Abruptly they rounded a bend, left the wooded 
channel of black river and burst into full sight of 
the garrison and her mighty guns. A shot came from 
the flagship that meant “Commence Firing!” Orders 
were barked out by gun captains, and a dozen Fed¬ 
eral guns discharged with violent detonation. 

No National troops came into view, but the gun¬ 
boats soon left telling effects with each shot. A light 
breeze kept the dense clouds of smoke moving so that 
the gunners could watch their balls tearing up the 
Rebel earthworks, ripping into the fort itself. 

Yet the enemy’s fire matched, often exceeded, the 
accuracy of the attacking force. Bill could see that 
the shots from the Carondelet often found their mark 
in the fort, but, more often, he felt under his feet 
the shock of a ball shattering the iron casemates, 
pounding about on the gun deck. He could see the 
balls surging viciously past the pilots, missing them 
by inches, stinging their ears with whining vibrations. 

An hour of steady cannonade, and the Confederate 
fire seemed to lessen. Word had been brought up 
that all the gunners on the Carondelet had been able 
to escape the balls that had entered ports or smashed 
armor. Bill’s pulse settled back to normal as they 
started to steam closer to the fort. 

Then a different sort of noise, a screaming hiss 



i 62 


Pilot on the River 


familiar to Bill’s ears, snatched his gaze to the right 
and the Essex. Through a gaping hole in her port 
side rushed clouds of deadlydiot steam. Now it 
whipped through other ports, flew up into the pilot' 
house like gas into a balloon. Tortured sailors, scream' 
ing with pain and fear, dove into the river. Others 
seized the wounded Capt. Porter, held him on the 
narrow water-line guard, and helped him inside at 
the stem. 

With only inches to spare, Bill forced his attention 
back to his wheel, just escaped running dangerously 
out of his course. The rest of the fleet kept on, but 
the Essex drifted back, helpless without power steam 
in her engines. 

At last the officers from the fort rowed out in an 
open boat and offered to surrender. Only then was 
Bill able to get over to the Essex. He forgot that 
no one had been killed or wounded on his own boat 
as he mounted to the pilothouse of the disabled craft. 
Marshall Ford’s body still lay propped up against a 
window frame. They had had to pull his hands from 
the wheel and bellrope, from the position in which 
he had been instantly scalded to death. 

Bill returned to his boat immediately and was or' 
dered to return with the disabled Essex since Ford’s 
partner had also been scalded to death. So it was a 




The officers rowed out and offered to surrender 








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Ironclads in Battle 


165 


discouraged, lonely Bill Wingate who arrived at 
Cairo and found a cabin on one of the idle steamers. 
He could find no one to talk to, no diversion that 
would take his mind off the sight of Marshall Ford’s 
body at the wheel; and this war that had taken from 
him his friends Jo Hartley and Andrew Lexington, 
cut him off from Constance Harrison, even kept his 
father’s letters from reaching him. Only sheer ex- 
haustion freed his mind in sleep. 

For the next few days discouraging reports came 
back from the ironclads’ attack on Fort Donelson, 
especially of the Carondelet being hit fifty-four times 
by the enemy. But toward the end of the month 
after the fort fell, she was able to come up to Mound 
City above Cairo and be put on the ways for repairs. 

During March the flotilla started down the Mis¬ 
sissippi to attack the Confederate fort on Island Num¬ 
ber Ten below the Kentucky state line, but Bill was 
not called for service. During the rest of the month 
the fleet hammered away at the batteries until Walke 
ran the Carondelet through them and at last helped 
isolate the Island Ten forces by taking New Madrid 
farther down the river. Now they were opposed 
by the Rebels’ holding the Mississippi with Fort Pil¬ 
low and, across the river, Osceola, Arkansas. 

Farragut had cut through New Orleans with his 



i66 


Pilot on the River 


Union fleet from the Gulf of Mexico, and Grant had 
taken Pittsburg Landing on the Tennessee River on 
a line east of Memphis. Yet, the South’s River De- 
fense Fleet on the Mississippi, now strengthened by 
steam rams, threatened the Northern boats above 
Ft. Pillow. Rebel steam rams had attacked disastrous' 
ly many Northern ships on the Atlantic coast, so 
that the Secretary of War late in March commis' 
sioned an engineer, Charles Ellet, Jr., to transform 
several Ohio River steamboats into rams to aid the 
Western Flotilla in fighting the South’s River De' 
fense Fleet and cutting down the river to join with 
Farragut’s fleet on its way up at Memphis. 

Even the greatest efforts on the part of Ellet to 
complete and man the rams consumed time. The 
Western Flotilla waited fearfully, hoping fervently 
that the new boats would relieve them before the 
South crashed through and took Cairo and St. Louis. 

Bill heard of the new boats and was immediately 
interested. Soon afterward, he wrote to his father: 
Dear Dad: 

When the War started, you wrote me a 
letter about whether or not I should enlist. 

As you know, I never did enlist, even though 
I’ve piloted steamboats and gunboats in the 
battles of Columbus, Kentucky, and Fort 



Ironclads in Battle 




Henry. I merely was called by the Pilot’s As¬ 
sociation and then paid for each trip sep¬ 
arately. 

I don’t think I would ever enlist in a service 
where I had to fire upon the South. Yet, I 
can’t stay here at Cairo waiting for something 
to happen and making no money in the mean¬ 
time. So I’m going down to New Albany, In¬ 
diana and see Col. Ellet, who is building a 
fleet of steam rams there. If his plans are what 
I’ve been told they are there, I’ll enlist as a 
pilot. 

I hope this letter reaches you all right and 
that you won’t worry. I’ll write every time 
there’s a chance of getting a letter through to 
you, just as I have been doing. I hope every¬ 
thing’s fine at Quincy. 

Affectionately yours, 

Bill 

By the time Bill Wingate reached New Albany, 
near Louisville, two of the rams were being manned. 
A pilot’s wages would be $175 per month, lasting 
until the rams either were successful in opening the 
river or lost in battle. 

Directly from the train. Bill visited Ellet, now bear- 



i68 


Pilot on the River 


ing the temporary rank of Colonel in the War De- 
partment. 

At once young Wingate was impressed with the 
vital, dynamic energy of this slight, narrow-faced 
man who worked so incessantly, who ignored his 
lack of knowledge of military etiquette and concen¬ 
trated on getting things done. He welcomed Bill 
with a firm handshake, instructed him briefly that 
this would be a hazardous enterprise so that he pre¬ 
ferred to depend on brave rivermen rather than 
trained soldiers whose caution often ruined their 
effectiveness. 

“These boats will have one purpose,” he explained 
to Bill. “They are to surprise the enemy boats and 
sink them by ramming. We will carry soldiers only 
as sharpshooters to protect the boats against board¬ 
ing by the enemy and to cover our pilots. The safety 
of a vessel will be of secondary consideration if we 
are successful in sinking a Rebel with it!” 

“Then the success of any attack depends on the 
skill of the pilot?” 

“Almost entirely, Mr. Wingate. And I have ar¬ 
ranged for all acts of bravery to receive due citation 
to the War Department. We ask only that you sign 
this oath that covers a period of six months. The 
Secretary of War agrees with me that the very na- 



Ironclads in Battle 


169 


ture of this service demands that it not be hampered 
by unnecessary military or naval regulations. 1 ’ He 
pushed a sheet of paper across the table: 

MILITARY OBLIGATION 

I—DO SOLEMNLY SWEAR, That I will 
bear true allegiance to the United States of Amen 
ica and that I will serve them honestly and faith' 
fully against all their enemies or opposers what' 
soever, and observe and obey the orders of the 
President of the United States, and the orders of 
the officers appointed over me, according to the 
rules and articles for the government of the forces 
of the United States, and all Government business 
entrusted to me shall be strictly and sacredly con' 
fidential, and I will use my influence to have good 
discipline in the service to which I belong, and 
continue well and truly to serve until I am dis' 
charged, provided the term of service shall not 
exceed six months from the date hereof. SO HELP 
ME GOD. 

After reading the text thoroughly, Bill signed his 
name, shook hands with the colonel, and went down 
to the shipyard to watch the work of changing over 
the boats. His blood tingled with excitement as he 
thought of the engagements to come. Here his skill 
at the wheel could be of some value instead of lead' 
ing to slaughter like that he had seen on death'traps 
such as the Tyler and Essex . On the rams men would 



170 


Pilot on the River 


not be imprisoned behind the casemates to be scalded, 
as on the gunboats. Bill decided, too, as he looked 
over one of the boats at the shipyards, that there 
would be no boilers punctured by shot since oak bar' 
ricades, two feet thick, guarded them. 

Great timbers, twelve to sixteen inches thick were 
being run from stem to stem, trussed at right angles 
at regular intervals with iron tie-rods. Long bolts 
also braced engines and boilers in all directions. Bill 
could see that the object was to reinforce the boat 
in such a way that her entire weight as a solid mass 
would drive the sharpened bow so deeply into any 
vessel it met that the opponent would sink imme- 
diately. 

As Bill finally reached Cairo in the ram Monarch , 
formerly of the Cincinnati and New Orleans Express 
Line, he came closer to being happy than he had in 
months. Already he was making friends among the 
many rivermen in the fleet who accepted him when 
they learned he belonged to the Association and had 
been a cub under Andrew Lexington. He was glad, 
too, to be free of military discipline. The only mili' 
tary men on the boats were in the small details Ob' 
tained by Capt. Alfred Ellet, Col. Ellet’s brother, 
formerly an officer in the Illinois Volunteer Infantry 
and now second'in'command in the fleet. Freedom 



Ironclads in Battle 


121 

within reasonable limits was allowed to all the river' 
men. Standing their watches properly was left more 
to their pride and loyalty than to commands, and all 
the steamboat men appreciated and justified the trust 
placed in them. 

On the 25th of May the complete fleet of seven 
rams, two small stemwheel towboats and their coal 
barges anchored with the Union fleet above Ft. Pil¬ 
low. Col. Ellet visited Flag Officer Charles H. Davis 
of the Western Flotilla while the crews of the ram 
fleet, Bill Wingate among them, waited eagerly for 
the command to advance on the threatening River 
Defense Fleet. 







Chapter XIV 
THE RAM FLEET 

Indecision on the part of Flag Officer C. H. Davis 
of the gunboat flotilla held the assembled fleets idle. 
By the time Davis agreed to Ellet’s running down 
to ram the Southern fleet without the help of the 
gunboats, it was the 6th of June. 

That night Col. Ellet drifted down upon the fort 
in a yawl to prove his contention that the fort had 
been evacuated and the Southern fleet moved down¬ 
river. When the ram fleet followed him at daybreak, 
they found the Union flag planted on the deserted 
stronghold. The Rebels had departed during the 
National forces’ debate. 


172 




The Ram Fleet 


173 


In the pilothouse of the Monarch with Bill Win' 
gate stood pilots Thomas F. Collins and Charles M. 
Jackson, as Col. Ellet from the Queen of the West, 
which he had made his flagship, signalled orders to 
proceed toward Memphis in regular succession. The 
Queen led in the oiflcial order followed by the Mon' 
arch, Lancaster, and Switzerland. Behind came the 
stemwheelers, Lioness, Sampson and Mingo, com¬ 
manded to keep back a safe distance so they could 
land their heavy tows of coal safely in case of an en¬ 
gagement. Captain Alfred Ellet commanded the 
Monarch. 

Going below later in the morning for a cup of 
coffee Bill was greeted by one of the sharpshooters 
from Alfred Ellet’s company of volunteers. 

“What are the plans?” Bill asked. 

“I couldn’t say for sure,” the rifleman returned 
disgustedly. “Nobody knows anything aboard these 
tubs. No military discipline. Nothing arranged. I 
hear we’re to stop at Ft. Randolph and plant the 
Union flag. But Davis didn’t give any more orders 
than that.” 

“Then Col. Ellet is just to use his own judgment?” 

“Guess that’s what he plans to do. Davis went 
off without sending over a line. Unless he sends back 
some boat, we’re on our own. 



i 74 


Pilot on the River 


“And mark my words,” he went on decisively, 
“we’re going to catch it at Memphis. They won’t 
let that go without a battle.” 

“Probably not,” Bill agreed. “Have they many 
boats?” 

“Enough to do us harm if we’re not ready,” the 
soldier said briefly and went out. 

“They won’t surprise me,” Bill murmured to the 
empty room. “Not if I can help it.” 

No word came from the gunboats the rest of the 
day. By a signal from the Queen , Col. Ellet gave 
orders to land for the night. Bill took the Monarch 
in behind the Queen on the Arkansas shore and rec¬ 
ognized the spot as being about eight to ten miles 
above Memphis. 

Before sunrise next morning the ram fleet slid out 
into the channel and made for Memphis. About a 
mile or so above the city, near the islands Paddy’s 
Hen and Chickens, they discovered the Federal fleet 
at anchor, spaced out in usual formation. 

From the Queen came the order to round to for 
landing, and Bill, with the help of Jackson, put the 
wheel hard over. Behind them the Lancaster and 
Switzerland repeated the maneuver. The Mingo , 
Lioness and Sampson had yet to round the bend. In 
the pilothouse of the Queen , Bill could see Col. Ellet 



The Ram Fleet 


175 


giving orders to the wheelsmen. Now a line went 
twisting to the bank from the Queen’s forecastle. 

Clear and still, the early morning air echoed the 
splash of paddle wheels and the creak of winches, 
of short, quick commands. 

Then, into the quiet crashed the resounding ex' 
plosion of a heavy cannon. Shrieking with speed, 
a shell knifed the water just astern of the Queen. 

Instantly the scene changed, woke to a feverish 
activity as the sun appeared above the horizon. Or' 
ders snapped from boat to boat. Five in the mom' 
ing, and the grim Battle of Memphis began. 

At once the gunboats opened fire, covering the 
river with solid walls of smoke. Col. Ellet rushed 
from the Queen’s pilothouse, flashed to the fleet the 
order to attack. Speedily the Queen and Monarch 
spun around, wheels churning the river white, rush' 
ing toward the intervals between the anchored gun' 
boats. 

Cheers roared up from the gunners on the Benton 
as Bill put the Monarch’s bow on the Queen’s stem 
and passed the line of gunboats. 

Now Col. Ellet shouted from the hurricane roof 
of the Queen as they found a rift in the wall of smoke 
and could see eight Confederate boats about a mile 
ahead. Ellet selected the Rebel Gen. Lovell , a great 



176 


Pilot on the River 


steamer barricaded with cotton bales, as his opponent 
and waved to Alfred Ellet to take another of the 
enemy rams. 

Bill had nothing to do but keep the Monarch on 
her new course and wait. But it was tense waiting. 
With every foot the Queen and Monarch rushed 
ahead, they gained more momentum, more speed by 
current and engines to be hurled bodily into the 
heavy craft driving as hard upstream toward them. 

Closer and closer the Queen and Lovell plunged. 
Now it seemed they would collide head-on. 

Then the Lovell , at the last moment, began to 
turn. Another second, a terrible crash, and she was 
slashed nearly through amidships by the charging 
Queen. Bill could hardly believe his eyes, so quickly 
had it all happened. Now, before the Queen could 
free herself from the wreckage, the Confederate Gen. 
Beauregard smashed into the Queen’s larboard wheel, 
practically disabling her, forcing her to get to shore 
as best she could. 

All this had occurred in the time it took the Mon - 
arch to cover about two hundred yards. But now 
Bill had to prepare for the crash that lay ahead of 
the Monarch. For the Beauregard had backed away 
from the Queen and was heading full at Bill’s shi p 

Tense, harrowing seconds dragged past as the boats 



The Ram Fleet 


177 


ate up the intervening water. Then they met. With 
violent smashing and rending, the Monarch’s bow 
crashed into the Beauregard’s forward quarter, sliced 
off a wheel, left her ready to sink. 

With the impact Bill was hurled violently back' 
ward, but one of his partners managed to hang onto 
the wheel as Bill climbed to his feet. He noticed on 
the way up that Col. Ellet was being carried, obvi- 
ously wounded, toward the texas on the Queen. 

The Monarch lay idle for a brief moment as Bill’s 
eyes flashed through the Southern fleet. Five rams 
and their smaller flagship Little Rebel against the 
Monarch. How could they overcome such odds? 

But there was no time for musing now, only time 
for action. The Gen. Bragg, a frigate-rigged ram from 
the Rebel ocean fleet, charged toward their larboard 
stem. On her forecastle gunners loaded a 32-pound 
weapon. Desperately the sharpshooters below Bill 
on the Monarch peppered that gun crew. 

Simultaneously the Gen. Price hurtled toward the 
Monarch’s starboard bow. Hopelessly Bill awaited 
orders as the senior pilot jerked frantically at the 
engine-room bell pulls. How could they escape be¬ 
ing crushed between these two great ships? 

Skillfully the sharpshooters picked away at the 
Price’s pilots. At the last moment, they forced the 



178 


Pilot on the River 


ram slightly out of control so that she missed the 
Monarch’s bow. At the stem, as the Monarch finally 
gained way, only a small piece of after guard was 
slashed off by the Bragg. 

By skillful rounding to, the Monarch managed to 
get to the Price and sink her. From near shore next 
came the Little Rebel, which they slammed aground 
for half her length. A boarding party rushed on to 
take possession. 

All through the ramming, the gunboats had ham' 
mered effective fire into the River Defense Fleet, 
raked the Beauregard, disabled the Little Rebel with 
a shot into her boiler room. Later the Jeff Thompson, 
Bragg and Sumter were captured by the pursuing 
gunboats that had slipped anchor during the battle. 

The only escaping ram, the Van Dorn, was almost 
out of sight when Bill and his partners set out after 
her. Thirty-five miles down the river they carried 
the pursuit, but the Van Dorn’s advantage was too 
great, and Lt. Col. Alfred Ellet, worried about his 
brother, gave the chase up as hopeless. 

As soon as they returned to the fleet, they rounded 
the Monarch to, made her fast, and sent a yawl bear¬ 
ing Lt. Col. Ellet over to the Queen of the West. 
There the men from the Monarch discovered what 
had happened during the battle. 



The Ram Fleet 


179 


The Lancaster lay disabled with a broken rudder 
through some mistake in signals. The Switzerland 
had left the battle to rescue her and land her safely. 

The Lioness , Sampson and Mingo had arrived in 
due time, beaching their tows of coal as instructed, 
but the battle was finished just before the Lioness 
reported. Thus, two rams with the fire of the gun' 
boats as aid had crippled practically the entire River 
Defense Fleet. 

Bill noticed the Lioness at the landing before the 
city of Memphis and inquired the reason for the 
visit. He learned that Col. Ellet, disabled in his 
cabin, with one knee shattered by a rifle shot, had 
sent his son Charles Rivers Ellet along with a mili' 
tary officer and two soldiers, to demand the surrem 
der of the city. 

“Look over there now,” Bill’s partner Jackson 
called just then. “On top of the Post Office Build' 
ing!” 

Bill discovered two tiny figures atop the four-story 
structure high on the bluff. A crowd surged at the 
entrance of the building. But the Stars and Stripes 
flew bravely from the roof! 

As if expecting violence from the mob, a crew of 
sharpshooters from the Lioness started up to pro' 
tect the party. 



i8o 


Pilot on the River 


By three o’clock when a detachment of troops 
under Col. Fitch from the transport Van Phul took 
over, the Union forces had military possession of 
Memphis. 

Pride in their victory filled Bill Wingate with joy 
as he heard the news of the official surrender, and 
later that Col. Ellet’s wound, the only one of conse' 
quence in the entire Union fleet, would not be seri' 
ous. The list of killed, wounded and missing in the 
Confederate forces had reached a hundred. 

But as the excitement of the battle passed, the 
picture changed. Daily their gallant commander grew 
worse. Refusing to give way to his wound, meeting 
jealousies and needless obstacles at every turn, he 
failed rapidly. By June 16th he was forced to relnv 
quish his command to his brother Alfred and leave 
for Cairo on the Switzerland. 

Seeing on the river before him the wrecks of boats 
that had been the pride of their captains and pas' 
sengers, hearing of the death of more and more of 
his friends in the Southern fleet, wondering whether 
Andrew Lexington and Jo Hartley could be among 
the missing on those boats, brought home to Bill 
more sickeningly than ever the bitterness, the brutal' 
ity of the War. Those abandoned days in the forests 
and on the river at Quincy, those dreamy hours at 



The Ram Fleet 


181 


the Harrison plantation with Constance seemed part 
of a distant, past world. He could see nothing in the 
glory of being a hero even though he had been com' 
mended for his skill at the Monarch’s wheel. It was 
hard to be enthusiastic about the honor in a letter 
home. Even though the generous monthly wage 
counted for much, he would have sacrificed it if he 
could have escaped from the fleet without breaking 
the oath he had signed. His spirits touched bottom 
when the death of Col. Charles Ellet was reported 
on the 21st of the month. 

Even the news secured from a prisoner that Jo and 
Andrew Lexington had escaped aboard the Van Dorn 
helped little. For now the Union rams were on their 
way to attack Vicksburg. 





Cautiously Bill Wingate steered the ram flagship 
Monarch down the bright, hurrying river above 
Island Number Ninety'seven and Vicksburg. The 
tension that kept the riflemen on close watch at the 
bow set his pulses drumming as they moved deeper 
and deeper into enemy territory. 

The Queen remained upriver for repairs. Near the 
Monarch churned the Fulton and Lancaster with the 
Mingo and Lioness a distance astern towing barges. 
Suddenly the Fulton shot up a distress flag, then sig' 
nailed that she had burned a boiler and would have 


182 


Scouting tip the Yazoo 


183 

to stop. A reply flashed back from the Monarch , and 
the flagship continued on her course, leaving the 
other three to guard the Fulton. As the rest of the 
fleet disappeared behind a bend, Lt. Col. Ellet, in 
command, came into Bill’s pilothouse. 

“We’ll go down just far enough to protect the 
others against being caught by a surprise attack,” he 
ordered. “We’ll return as soon as it seems likely 
that the Fulton can continue.” 

“Yes, sir,” Bill and his partner answered. 

“May I ask whether the gunboats will follow us?” 

“You may. And the answer will be in the nega* 
tive. Commodore Davis seems to ignore the fact 
that we are practically unarmed and need protection. 
However, we cannot afford to let our duty wait on 
another man’s plans. We learned that at Memphis.” 

Soon they came back up to the other boats, and 
Lt. Col. Ellet ordered the Fulton, the shallowest' 
draft boat of the five, to lead the way to Vicksburg. 

As they rounded the bend and anchored above 
the city, Bill caught his first glimpse of the fort whose 
mighty batteries stood in the way of the Union’s 
holding the entire Mississippi River. Yet Farragut, 
even now working upstream from New Orleans, 
planned to try to make a junction with the Western 
Flotilla above the city. 



184 


Pilot on the River 


Bill could hardly recognize the Vicksburg that 
had grown so familiar on his trips at the wheel of 
the Alex Scott and Magnolia. Streets parallel to the 
river still rose in regular steps up the steep bluffs. 
Store buildings and warehouses still covered the first 
few levels, with the courthouse, churches and homes 
covering the final ledges. But now guns, protected 
by heavy earthworks, interrupted the peaceful beauty 
of the city. One set of twelve heavy cannon lined 
the shore. Other sets covered the wide axe of the 
bluffs’ peaks—all silent, ominous threats of death or 
ruin to any man or boat who might try to assault 
their strength. He could hardly believe this was the 
city where, only two years before, he had met Com 
stance Harrison. 

A hail from below caught Bill’s attention, but he 
stayed in the pilothouse as his partner followed the 
commander down to greet a lone man whose skiff 
bore a white flag of truce. 

Within five minutes, the other pilot rushed back, 
eyes bright with excitement. 

“That fellow is for the Union but from Vicks¬ 
burg,’’ he confided. “He says Farragut and his fleet 
lie on the other side of the point below the lower 
batteries. They demanded surrender of the city in 
May and were refused. Now they want to attack it. 




His party waded through swamps waist deep 
















- 













V 




I 



Scouting up the Yazoo 


187 


Ellet is sending his nephew—you know, Charley 
Ellet—with a party to cross the point to find and 
talk to Farragut right away!” 

“But they can’t do anything against all those guns. 
At that elevation. Alfred Ellet told me Farragut 
hasn’t any rifled guns,” Bill protested. 

“He’ll try mortars, probably. But they won’t do 
much good. 

“And here’s something else,” the pilot went on. 
“This fellow told Ellet that the Rebels are just finish' 
ing a powerfully big gunboat up the Yazoo river, the 
Arkansas, and that they’ve got a lot of transports 
and a couple of rams there, too. Including the Van 
Dorn that got away at Memphis.” 

Bill whistled thoughtfully. Were Jo and his old 
chief on the Van Dorn ? 

Charles Ellet and his party at last managed to get 
back, and waded through swamps waist deep, facing 
danger at every step. They reported that Farragut 
wanted the gunboats under Davis to come down to 
help him attack Vicksburg. In reply Alfred Ellet 
sent the Fulton up to the Davis fleet with the message. 

Meantime he put his nephew in command of the 
Lancaster, and in the Monarch began scouting up the 
Yazoo to investigate the reports of Southern boats 
hiding there. 



i88 


Pilot on the River 


Bill could hardly contain himself as they picked 
their course through miles of narrowing river, be¬ 
tween shores thick with canebrake and heavy trees. 
The sixty-five miles passed slowly as he peered anx¬ 
iously around each bend for a sight of the Van Dorn 
or other Rebel craft. Bill tried not to think of what 
might happen if a battle did result. 

Abruply they came onto a raft that bridged the 
river. A few guns had been placed on the raft to 
protect the Confederate boat. Quickly Bill recog¬ 
nized the Van Dorn. Also the Pol\ and Livingston. 
But before the batteries could bark out an attack, 
before Ellet could give an order, all three of the Con¬ 
federate ships seemed to burst into flame at once, to 
start drifting slowly down upon them. 

“Bring her to! Retreat! Back down river!” Ellet 
shouted to his pilots, rushing a flagman to a spot 
where he could relay the command to the Lancaster. 

And retreat was the only course. The three South¬ 
ern boats might contain magazines of explosives that 
could blow the Monarch and Lancaster right out of 
the river. Dejectedly Bill helped bring the boat’s 
nose around. They would not reach the Arkansas, 
and worse. Bill would not hear nor see anything of 
his friends. 

Two days later Farragut decided to try run ning 



Scouting up the Yazoo 


189 


the batteries of the city in order to get around the 
point and join the rams to wait for Davis and the 
gunboats. He succeeded at five in the morning of 
the 28th of June, but four men were killed and thir¬ 
teen wounded. His report sent into Washington con¬ 
tained the famous sentence: “The forts can be passed 
and we have done it, and can do it as often as may 
be required of us!” 

Those words meant much in the newspapers, but 
the rest of his dispatch stated: “It will not, however, 
be any easy matter for us to do more than silence the 
batteries for a time, as long as the enemy has a large 
force behind the hills to prevent our landing and 
holding the place.” 

Even a boy as unskilled in military tactics as Bill 
could see the hopelessness of the situation. He sat 
through the blistering hot days dejectedly, disgusted 
with the constant volleys from Farragut’s guns, with 
the humiliating escape of the Arkansas from the 
Yazoo and the Union’s useless attempt to sink her 
before the Vicksburg batteries. 

There were no reserve land forces available to con¬ 
centrate on attacking the city, so Farragut’s remain¬ 
ing longer seemed futile in the face of a falling river. 
T akin g Vicksburg would cut the South off from her 
breadbasket along the Red River and disable another 



190 


Pilot on the River 


railroad, but no men could be spared from other 
Union positions for even as vital a movement as this. 

Besides, malaria which was rising murderously 
from the vile swamps and thriving in the humid sum' 
mer heat, mowed down Army and Navy alike. An 
attempt to cut a canal through the point had to be 
abandoned. Finally, Ellet and Davis were forced to 
withdraw up the river to Helena, Arkansas, as the 
Confederates industriously set to strengthening their 
fortifications at Vicksburg for a long fight. 

For Bill those months beat along with agonizing 
slowness. He could hardly bear to wake each day 
and report for mess on a boat filthy with disease, 
ringing with the delirium of new cases. He had seen 
his friends die from the shot of their countrymen; 
now he watched them struggling hopelessly against 
trembling chills and searing fever. He could hardly 
manage to be grateful when, during his first attack 
of the disease, he was assigned to pilot the Queen to 
Cairo for repairs. Not even the news that his pay 
would be advanced to $250 per month could make 
him face calmly the prospect of eventually coming 
back to Vicksburg. 

He was resolved to resign or even desert from the 
service when he plodded onto the Cairo wharfboat 
and to the post office to look for mail from his father. 




Chapter XVI 
A NEW POST 

The first person Bill saw when he stepped off the 
wharfboat at Cairo was Jo Hartley. 

“Ho! Bill Wingate!” roared his chum. “Welcome 
to our city!” 

Joy rushed through Bill as he ran up to Jo, threw 
his arms over his shoulders, hammered him on the 
back. The war, the Monarch, even the broiling sun 
that had set his fever smoldering, were forgotten 
as he greeted the young engineer. 

“And what are you doing up here, Mr. Hartley?” 
he demanded. 


191 



192 


Pilot on the River 


“What do you suppose?” the jolly roar abruptly 
lost its cheeriness. “You don’t think Abe Lincoln 
asks Southern Navy men to come to Cairo as his 
guests, do you?” 

“I’m sorry, Jo,” Bill realized his mistake. “Seeing 
you again made me forget there ever was a war.” 

“I know,” Jo cooled off. “I shouldn’t have been 
grumpy. It isn’t your fault—at least not directly— 
that I was taken prisoner.” 

“Jo? What do you mean by not directly my 
fault?” Bill asked unable to understand this new, bit' 
ter Jo Hartley. 

“I’m sorry again. It’s just this rotten position I’m 
in up here. But, you see, you were piloting the 
Monarch, one of the two rams that ruined our fleet 
at Memphis. And chased me off the Little Rebel." 

“But somebody told me you escaped on the Van 
Dorn." 

“Whoever told you that was wrong. I was on the 
Rebel all the time. I managed to get away out into 
Arkansas, but Lexington was too badly hurt. We 
had to leave him to die. The Memphis people buried 
him. I had a letter from Capt. Merriman about that.” 

“But I didn’t see him in any of the pilothouses,” 
Bill protested. 

“Who could see anybody in all that smoke?” Jo 



A New Post 


193 


countered gruffly. “But forget it. Lexington's gone. 
I'm a prisoner. And, from the way you look, you’re 
in none too good condition yourself. War is awful, 
and the only thing to do is try to forget it. What 
have you been doing?’’ 

“It’s—terrible to—to—hear about Mr. Lexington. 
And I haven’t seen anything but war either.” 

“Well, tell me about it. It can’t be any worse than 
what I’ve been through.” 

“I can’t, Jo. The last month or so were horrible. 
They were trying to dig a canal across the point at 
Vicksburg and had no luck. Then the Tyler and 
Carondelet and Queen went up the Yazoo after their 
—your—new gunboat, the Arkansas. The Arkansas 
came into the river and nearly wrecked our fleet. 
Even though Farragut did see the Arkansas go to 
pieces down below Vicksburg, it didn’t make our 
bungling above the city and up the Yazoo any less 
disgraceful. It’s—it’s, well, creepy to have the lives 
of your friends, the men we knew on the river, wiped 
out because of mistakes of officers, mistakes that 
make battles and loss of life useless.” 

“I know,” Jo returned thoughtfully. “I thought 
of you on one side of the lines and me on the other.” 
He paused. “I can’t make any sense out of it.” 

“Neither can I,” Bill burst out. “And I’m going 



194 


Pilot on the River 


to resign. I can get an honorable discharge because 
of this fever I got at Vicksburg.” 

“They might let you because of your sickness,” 
Jo said, after a moment. “But I suspect you won’t 
try.” Some new, hidden meaning had crept into Jo’s 
words. 

“Why?” 

“Just this, Bill.” 

“Just what?” 

“All right. I might as well tell you and have it 
over with. Your father is in trouble, in debt. One 
of the St. Louis merchants is going to put him out 
of business because he hasn’t paid for the merchan- 
dise he’s sold at the store in Quincy. There was a 
fellow down from St. Louis looking for you last 
week.” 

“Tell me about it,” Bill pleaded miserably. 

“Nothing much to tell,” Jo replied slowly. “Bar¬ 
ton and Sons want about seven hundred dollars or 
else they will take over your dad’s store.” 

Seven hundred dollars! Only a few dollars less 
than the pay he had just received at Vicksburg for 
those four tortured, punishing months with the Ram 
Fleet. Seven hundred dollars, that, with his bank 
account might at least allow him to buy a share in 
a steamboat after the War. The heavy, moisture- 



A New Post 


195 


packed air now seemed almost impossible to breathe. 

“Seven hundred?” he asked Jo feebly. 

Young Hartley nodded sympathetically—then 
lunged forward to seize Bill as he toppled. 

“Just fever,” Bill managed to explain. “Probably 
I’d better go to the hospital. But—” 

“But what?” Jo asked as Bill failed to finish while 
they made their way slowly to the hospital boat. 

“But you’d better see that this is paid for Dad.” 
He weakly tugged an envelope from an inside pocket. 
“I—I—guess we’ll have to wait a spell for a boat. 
And I guess—guess I can’t resign just—just yet.” 

Only sheer determination—and the presence of 
Jo Hartley—kept Bill Wingate alive through that 
attack of fever. Weeks, then months passed, before 
he was able to sit upright in his bed and see the 
world in its normal proportions. Yankee Jack Win' 
gate came down for a visit and went back without 
talking to his son, realizing that Bill wanted to fight 
his own fight. David D. Porter took command of the 
Ram Fleet and the Western Flotilla, (now under the 
supervision of the Navy Department) to succeed 
Davis with whom the Ellets had had so much dis' 
sension. Grant, in command of the operations in the 
West, moved down toward Vicksburg to make the 



196 


Pilot on the River 


capture of the city his principal objective. And in 
February, 1863, Union Prisoner Josiah Hartley 
talked with Union Pilot William Wingate, tempo' 
rarily disabled, about a new brigade being formed 
under the command of Brig. Gen. A. W. Ellet at 
St. Louis. 

“You remember the trouble your Ram Fleet had 
when its boats carried communications and supplies 
from Vicksburg and the Yazoo up to Memphis.” 

Bill turned over his left arm, peered at the elbow. 

“Guess it’s gone now,” he mused. “I had a fine 
bum right there from some guerilla riflemen on the 
shore when I came up here last time on the Monarch. 
I think they were part of Col. Ferguson’s command. 
We dropped a few shells on them, but I heard they 
came right back afterwards just as they had done 
after firing on a lot of our other boats. It was the 
first surprise volley that did the damage.” 

“That’s what Ellet said. Our—I mean the Com 
federate—men can do a lot of damage by surprising 
the boats from the shore when the channel runs 
near the bank. Now Ellet’s formed a brigade at 
St. Louis to be carried on a lot of new steamboats 
the North bought. It’ll be called the Mississippi 
Marine Brigade. They even got up a song for them' 
selves when they organized this winter. T his is it. 



A New Post 


m 


“ ‘I’m Captain Jinks of the Horse Marines, 

I give my horse good com and beans; 

Of course, it’s quite beyond my means. 

Though I’m Captain in the Army.’ ” 

Bill laughed delightedly. “Just a floating livery 
stable,” he chuckled. “I suppose the cavalry will 
gallop after the guerillas when they attack.” 

“That’s it,” Jo grinned. “They’re rigging gang' 
planks two horses wide. And they’re recruiting con' 
valescents from the hospitals.” 

“How about a convalescent pilot?” Bill asked, half 
in fun. 

“That’s where you come in. They’ll need some 
when they get downriver.” 

“But I’m not taking any easy duty out of self' 
pity,” Bill asserted. “Just that I’ve been sick is no 
reason why I should go after invalids’ assignments. 
Besides, I was going to tell you. Charles Ellet wants 
me back on the Queen early next month. Porter is 
going to try to cut off boat traffic from the Red 
River where Vicksburg gets its supplies.” 

“But, Bill,” Jo protested, “are you strong enough 
yet?” 

“Of course. I’m going to be discharged from the 
hospital at the end of the week. I’m going down to 
Vicksburg on the dispatch boat.” 



198 


Pilot on the River 


Jo saw it was useless to argue. “All I can do is 
wish you luck, then. I’ll miss you up here.’’ 

“Don’t worry,” Bill grinned. “We’ll have this war 
all ironed out in a few months. Then we can go 
back to steamboating again. And some of that real 
steamboat cooking.” 

Bill was mightily pleased a week later when he 
found Jo had received permission to come down to 
the wharfboat to see him off on the dispatch boat 
for Vicksburg. It made it easier to forget, for a mo¬ 
ment at least, that this duty would be doubly pain¬ 
ful now that he was weak from sickness and unpre¬ 
pared to meet the hardships that had defeated him 
before, that had killed and made invalids of full- 
grown men. 

“Try to be careful, will you, Bill?” Jo pleaded. 

Young Wingate smiled, warmed by his friend’s 
genuine anxiety. “Don’t worry,” he chided. “No 
more hospitals for me where I can’t draw full pay.” 

“Miser. I’m ashamed of you.” 

“It’s not as bad as all that, Mr. Engineer. You 
knew you were going to be chief engineer on my 
boat when I get it, didn’t you?” 

“I was going to apply for the berth, sir. At the 
proper time,” Jo announced with mock dignity. 

“Very good, Mr. Hartley. I’ll keep you in mind.” 



A New Post 


i99 


The arrival of the captain interrupted their talk, 
and they sat silent for a moment as a uniformed mes- 
senger from headquarters delivered to him a batch of 
official orders and documents. They would leave at 
any minute now. 

“Jo,” Bill spoke slowly. He hated to ask this 
question. “Have—have you heard anything of Gam 
stance Harrison and Lucy French?” 

“I’m sorry. Not a thing since last June before the 
Battle of Memphis. I imagine they’re both still in 
Mississippi. At the plantations. Lucy said nothing 
would make them leave. They have all their slaves 
to provide for even though they’re not slaves any 
more since the Emancipation Proclamation.” 

Bill nodded miserably. 

“But I thought you didn’t want to hear of Con' 
stance again.” 

“I oughtn’t to want to. I was determined not to. 
But somehow, I guess I just can’t help thinking 
about her. Oh, I wish this war could be over!” 

“On that stage now!” barked the mate, and Bill 
had to hurry aboard as the rousters started to bring 
the plank in. 

Jo stood up and shouted across the barricade of 
cotton bales on the boat’s forecastle. “Then get the 
war finished, Bill Wingate! Good luck. Captain! It’s 



200 


Pilot on the River 


your chief engineer that will be cheering for you!” 

Bill waved gaily as they worked out into the chan' 
nel. For the first time he was going downriver to 
fight without fear, without dread of the horror be' 
fore him. And Jo’s banter was not the only cause 
of this new courage. He could feel within himself 
that something pleasant lay ahead, that this trip 
would be different from the others. 












MISS CONSTANCE HARRISON 


Bill’s optimism held through the trip down to 
Young’s Point above Vicksburg. Even though 
guerillas interrupted them by hurling a 32-pound 
shell into the boat’s upper hull along with a rain of 
rifle balls, he managed to get in a double quota of 
sleep and arrive feeling much more rested than when 
he left the Cairo hospital ship. 

Then brisk activity suddenly shattered his leisure. 
Col. Charles Rivers Ellet, commanding the Ram 
Fleet while Brig. Gen. Alfred Ellet was organizing 
the Marine Brigade at St. Louis, called his men to¬ 
gether on the Queen of the West. 


201 





202 


Pilot on the River 


“You all know that the Rebel transport City of 
Vicksburg lies before the Vicksburg batteries,” he 
addressed them. “You know that the batteries have 
been strengthened since Farragut went downriver 
and that we have withheld any attack from above. 
You also know that the river from Port Hudson to 
our position is being used for the passage of Con' 
federate supplies from the Red River. Cutting off 
that flow of supplies will eventually starve out the 
Vicksburg garrison, especially if our army can invest 
the city from the southern and eastern sides. We 
already hold the Yazoo on the north.” 

Looking at the faces of those around him—drawn, 
tense, bitterly determined faces—Bill saw reflected 
the spirit of optimism, of desperate bravery that 
made him eager for the young colonel’s next words. 

“I have accepted the responsibility of passing the 
batteries with the Queen and attempting to ram the 
City of Vicksburg at her moorings, thence moving 
down to patrol the river below the lower batteries. 
We will barricade the Queen with timbers and cot' 
ton bales. Every precaution will be made for the 
safety of the Queen’s crew. We will try moving the 
steering apparatus below, out of range. We will take 
as few men as possible and pick up the party for the 
patrol duty on the other side of the peninsula below 



Miss Constance Harrison 


203 


the batteries. This will be a vitally important duty, 
as dangerous as it is important. I will assign no men 
for this trip. I feel only volunteers should man the 
Queen. Will those willing to undertake this duty 
step forward?” 

Not knowing why he did so, yet sure he would 
regret holding back, Bill stepped forward. Scott Long, 
whom he had known before as a pilot in the Ram 
Fleet, also volunteered. 

Long was at the wheel when they cast off and 
started downstream through the early morning black' 
ness on their hazardous expedition. Not a light 
showed from the Queen as Long eased her carefully 
into the channel, moving at slow speed so that their 
engines and escape pipes could hardly be heard. 

“Bill,” Long hissed, “come here. Try this wheel. 
It’s too unhandy for me to do anything with it. I 
could hardly get it down in time when we backed 
out.” 

Young Wingate grasped the spokes. The boat an' 
swered properly to her helm, but with the wheel 
cramped into such a small space, it would be im' 
possible to handle the Queen as fast as she would 
have to be handled in ramming the Vicksburg. It 
would be suicide to try to run the batteries with such 
a handicap. 



304 


Pilot on the River 


“We’ll have to go back and fix this,” Bill replied. 
“Will you explain to Charley Ellet?” 

Long nodded and was on his way as Bill rounded 
the Queen to. By the time they got under way again, 
it was nearly daylight. 

Nevertheless, the Queen now drove down toward 
the ominous cannon-studded bluffs and the transport 
lying at the landing. It would be foolish to try to 
go slowly. The only chance was to run as fast as 
possible, try to escape before too much damage was 
done. Bill and Long kept her close to the right hand 
bank, as far from the guns as possible, planning to 
cross when they got down to the City of Vicksburg. 

The batteries were ready for them. As soon as 
they rounded the bend, fire belched from guns on the 
bluffs and from the line at the water’s edge. Obvi¬ 
ously the attack had been expected, for women and 
children stood in the city streets watching the bom¬ 
bardment. Sharpshooters had been placed at the 
water battery. Bill trembled as he thought of bring¬ 
ing their flimsy Queen directly into these guns to try 
to ram the Vicksburg. Already they had been struck 
three times above the waterline. 

Now they were across the river from the transport 
and rounding up into the current. Below on the 
forecastle Bill could see the Queen’s crew loading the 



Miss Constance Harrison 


205 


bow gun with turpentine balls. Even though a 64' 
pound shot crashed through the barricade protect' 
ing them, they kept right on with their task. 

That bravery was the only thing that kept Bill 
at the wheel. For, with the Vicksburg’s bow lying 
part way into the stream, only hitting her from be' 
low would leave any effect. Bill and Long spun the 
wheel, trying to get the Queen around fast enough 
so that they would have a straight ram upriver. But 
the current defeated them, whipped their stem so 
far over that they lost headway and could strike only 
a glancing blow. All the while the whine of shells, 
the clatter of rifle fire bit into the Queen , nagged 
her men with searing insistence. 

At the instant of impact, the gunners shot the 
flamin g turpentine balls onto the Vicksburg , set her 
afire. But the crash of the Queen’s pointed bow was 
not serious. 

Back! Head her down and away!" Col. Ellet 
shouted. “We’re afire ourselves. Cut loose those 
bales on the bow!’’ 

For one of the Rebel shells had fired some of the 
cotton bale barricades. Now smoke swept back into 
the Queen , tailed by long red tongues of flame. Only 
quick action could save the boat. 

Scornful of the constant cannonade from the bluffs, 



206 


Pilot on the River 


men rushed forward with knives, tumbled overboard 
bale after bale. Long rang for full speed as Bill 
headed the Queen out into the swiftest part of the 
channel, slaved to take advantage of every ounce of 
steam to get them past the lower batteries. 

At last the task was done. They were free of the 
murderous fire, and, although the boat had been 
struck twelve times and had her cabin reduced to 
kindling wood, not a man received a serious injury. 

Spent but relieved, Bill dropped to a chair behind 
the wheel as they tied up. As he glanced idly about 
the pilothouse, he shuddered. Not one square foot 
of woodwork could he find that had not been pierced 
by at least two or three rifle slugs. 

Long broke into Bill’s depressing thoughts. “No 
time for that now, partner,” he announced. “That 
was a narrow enough escape. We leave at one o’clock, 
right after what those army fellows call mess.” 

The Queen had hardly reached Warrenton, just 
below Vicksburg, when she was beset by a battery 
of four rifle guns on the shore. Luckily she was hit 
only twice, without important damage, so that she 
got to Natchez about midnight. Apparently there 
was no communication by telegraph in that direo- 
tion, for, with the exception of Warrenton, none of 
the towns made any effort to resist her passage. In 



Miss Constance Harrison 


207 


fact, when they met a sidewheel packet at about 
three a. m. below the mouth of the Red River, they 
were greeted with regulation whistle signals. 

At the commander’s orders, Long kept the Queen 
on her course without replying to the signal. Abrupt' 
ly the packet pulled to shore with the Queen after 
her. Rebel officers sprang to the bank as soon as she 
touched. As Ellet’s men took prisoner five captains 
and two lieutenants, Bill studied the sidewheeler 
through the darkness, finally discovered she was the 
H. W. Ba\er. He hardly noticed several ladies com' 
ing aboard from her with the captives. 

Just then another steamer was sighted and a shot 
fired over her bows. She turned out to be the Moro 
carrying pork, hogs and salt for the Confederate 
army. Placing one of his officers in charge of the 
prize, Ellet ordered the Queen pointed for the Red 
River, with the other boats following. 

Bill went down into the cabin to consult Col. Ellet. 
On his way back along the rail toward the dark 
companionway, a cry whirled him around. 

“Who’s there?” he demanded. 

“Quiet! Don’t let them hear you,” the voice com' 
manded low, but intense. “I’m behind the ladder.” 

Bill grasped firmly the pistol he carried in case of 
emergencies. He would have drawn it, had not that 



208 


Pilot on the River 


voice sounded so familiar. “No, it couldn’t be,” he 
told himself, advancing carefully. “That would be 
too much to ask.” 

Now he could make out a slender, erect form in 
what looked like a full riding skirt. “Who are you?” 
he whispered bitingly. Then he dove quickly into 
the comer behind the ladder, seized the wrists of the 
shadowy figure, spun her around so that the faint 
coloring in the east fell on her face. 

“Constance,” he cried aloud. “What are you do¬ 
ing here?” 

“Quiet! You shouldn’t be seen here talking with 
me.” 

“I’ll take the risk,” he snapped back, then softened 
as he studied her more closely. Pain, fear, anxiety 
lined her smooth forehead. Hardship had left her 
thin. Yet those very hardships had made her more 
beautiful, strengthened the set of her square shoul¬ 
ders, shaped more nobly the determined line of neck 
and chin. 

“Have you been all right, Constance?” he asked 
softly. “How are your father and mother and Lucy? 
Jo was asking after Lucy at Cairo. He was captured, 
but not injured.” 

“Everybody is all right. Father is with Jefferson 
Davis at the Capitol. Mother and Lucy are here with 













/ 




V 




















» 








Miss Constance Harrison 


211 


me. And Marcellus, too. Col. Ellet will let us off 
at Jones’ Plantation near the mouth of the Red River. 

“But Bill, please,” she interrupted herself, “we 
have only a minute. Tell me all about yourself. And 
your dad.” 

“Dad’s fine, and you don’t have to worry about 
me. But stay on the boat, all of you. You’ll be safe 
at Vicksburg.” 

She shook her head decisively. 

“You know we can’t do that. Any more than you 
can leave your side of the War. Oh!” and she sud' 
denly broke into tears. “This War is horrible, hor' 
rible. I’ve missed you so!” 

It took all the courage Bill could muster to take 
her by the shoulders, shake her out of the despair 
he knew might break her down entirely. “Constance! 
Constance!” his voice was hard. “Stop that! And 
go back to your mother. Tell Marcellus you saw 
me and that I said for him to take good care of 
you for me.” 

Anxiously Bill waited for her sobbing to subside. 
At last she was master of herself, again able to raise 
that strong chin. “Will you be back to Mississippi 
after the War is over—if—if—” 

With an effort Bill grinned, patted her warmly on 
the shoulder. “Miss Harrison, Mr. Hartley and I 



212 


Pilot on the Riven 


will roll down the Mississippi in our new steamboat, 
the finest on the river, and tie up at Harrison’s Land¬ 
ing. When we blow the whistle, you will know we 
are there to take you with us. Now I have to go 
back to the pilothouse to earn that steamboat.” 

With a firm handclasp he started her to the cabin 
and scaled the ladder away from her without looking 
back. A wave from the pilothouse when they pulled 
away from Jones’ Plantation, and Bill Wingate went 
back to war, to bringing closer that day when he 
and Jo would tie up at Harrison’s Landing. In his 
happiness he forgot Constance’s father. 





Chapter XVIII 

BILL WINGATE, PRISONER 

All hands aboard the Queen won high praise when 
they reached Vicksburg. Only a few days later the 
flagship again turned her nose downstream, bound 
again for the Red River. Bill Wingate was not 
aboard. 

Without explanation he had been replaced in the 
pilothouse and ordered north to the new Marine Bri' 
gade. He suspected his conversation with Constance 
had something to do with the situation, since Col. 
Ellet had asked him informally who the young 
woman was whom he had talked with secretly on the 


213 


214 


Pilot on the River 


Queen. He had seemed perfectly satisfied with Bill’s 
reply, but Constance could have been a spy, and Ellet 
obviously dared not risk Bill’s seeing her again. 

Still, Bill would not have given up that talk with 
Constance for anything in the world. In spite of 
Jo’s heartening words, he had been again sinking 
into that numb, discouraged apathy that weighed 
down most of the veterans in the service. He had 
been about ready to resign, as had so many of the 
rivermen who began with the Ram Fleet. Now he 
was determined to do his best to bring closer the 
day when he and Jo would sail down to Harrison’s 
Landing with a boat carrying jack wingate—owner 
over the office door. 

Too, it was thrilling to back away from the St. 
Louis levee at the wheel of the Diana and head for 
Cairo. From there, after coaling, they would go on 
to Vicksburg. Bill remembered vividly his father’s 
description of the dramatic race between the Diana 
and the Baltic (also included in the Marine Brigade) 
which had made history in the New Orleans trade. 

Now the Diana , commanded by General Alfred 
Ellet was sheathed from main deck to roof with dou- 
ble two'inch oak planking and cut up inside into 
stables, officers’ and soldiers’ quarters and separate 
messes for each. Hoses were rigged for hot boiler 



Bill Wingate, Prisoner 


2x5 


water to be used to repel boarders. Yet she still 
answered to her helm, came ahead at the engine bells 
like the magnificent lady she was. 

Strangely they were not molested during the trip 
down to the Confederate stronghold. Occasional 
stops were made for picking up coal or exercising 
the troops. But the first trouble was internal. Bad, 
inadequate food at Vicksburg culminated in wrecked 
mess halls on four of the boats and stoppage of pay 
for several of the wreckers. The recruiting posters 
had promised good food, but the cooks tried to call 
two biscuits per man per meal with tea or coffee 
“good food.” On one boat the mutineers even crashed 
down a partition and burst into the officers’ mess. 

Meanwhile naval matters at Vicksburg grew worse. 
The canal across the point, started again, was given 
up in disgust. Expeditions sent up Yazoo Pass and 
Steele’s Bayou in an attempt to get at the Vicksburg 
batteries from the rear failed miserably. The Queen 
of the West grounded before a Rebel battery up the 
Red River. Her crew escaped only by floating down 
the st-rpam on cotton bales. And disease plowed dis¬ 
astrously through the camps and boats. 

Bill was more than glad to receive orders with the 
Marine Brigade to scout in the neighborhood of 
Greenville, Mississippi, and suppress the guerillas. 



2 l6 


Pilot on the River 


Heartily sick of Vicksburg already, he fortunately 
could not know that Vicksburg would figure more 
painfully than ever in the days to come. 

Across the river from Greenville, Gen. Ellet or¬ 
dered his first landing near Lake Village for scouting. 
Bill brought the Diana up to the levee and watched 
the wide stage creak over from the forecastle as the 
cavalrymen held their mounts, waiting for the order 
to swing into the saddle and clatter onto the levee 
road. 

Now they trooped down, two by two, a gay sight 
in neat blue uniforms, caps bright with a wide green 
band and gold lace trim. Bill could see the pride in 
Gen. Ellet’s eyes as he cantered at the rear, flanked 
by Capt. Crandall and two orderlies. But Bill knew 
these bright costumes would soon be smirched with 
mud and blood. 

No sign of the guerillas under Col. Ferguson could 
be seen from the bank. A lake, fed by many narrow 
streams, separated the river from Lake Village. As 
the men would not return for an hour or two and 
the boats had ample protective forces Bill saw noth¬ 
ing wrong in strolling up the road. The quiet of the 
place after the horses had disappeared behind the 
hills tempted him. 

Lazily he wandered to a narrow creek bed cut 



Bill Wingate, Prisoner 


217 


deeply into the river bank, and picked out a shady 
spot under a willow. Stretched on the springy ground, 
listening to the peaceful hurry of the water he could 
almost forget the war. His mind slipped back to 
Illinois and the woods around Quincy. He could 
almost imagine himself back there, watching a chance 
to toss a line invitingly to the great bullhead that 
so often sneaked up the still creeks to cool himself— 

“On yo’ feet, there!” a harsh voice slashed into 
his calm. “Lively now. And don’t cry out.” 

Bill knew at once from the battered grey uniforms 
that these were Confederate scouts. Strangely they 
had not drawn their pistols but only stood over him 
threateningly. 

Slowly he crawled to his feet, trying to watch 
both holsters at once, but being careful to keep his 
own hand well away from his gun. 

“You’re from the Marine Brigade?” one of the 
soldiers demanded as the other lashed his hands be' 
hind him. 

Young Wingate nodded. 

“Well, we’ll go and talk to Col. Ferguson.” 

“Col. Ferguson?” Dismay shot through Bill’s 
heart as he heard the name of the powerful, relent' 
less guerilla commander whom the Marine Brigade 
sought, on whose account the movement to Green' 



2 l8 


Pilot on the River 


ville had been planned. Ferguson would naturally 
want to know of the details of that movement and 
would perhaps try to force them from Bill. 

“Come on now, this way,” one of his captors in¬ 
structed gruffly. “You bring up the rear, Jim. And 
no trying to escape or screaming, Mr. Horse Marine.” 

Bill nodded sullenly and followed the speaker as 
he struck up the creek bed toward the river. On 
the bank, out of sight of the Union fleet, he pulled 
a skiff out of hiding and wordlessly rowed across 
the stream. Bill’s mind worked furiously as he tried 
to imagine what Ferguson’s questions would be and 
how he would reply to them. He couldn’t decide 
whether it was to his advantage or disadvantage that 
he knew nothing of Gen. Ellet’s plans except that 
the Brigade was now headed for Lake Village. For 
one weak moment he even considered giving him¬ 
self up entirely, telling all he knew and staying with 
the Southern forces. Then he remembered the oath 
which he had taken at New Albany when he joined 
the Ram Fleet. He could not go back on his word. 
His duty was to tell nothing, try to escape from 
Ferguson’s camp at the first possible moment and 
warn the Marines. It would be foolhardy to break 
away now in this unfamiliar country with two men 
ready to shoot instantly. 



Bill Wingate, Prisoner 


219 


His determination hardened when he was at last 
led to the guerilla tents. Here were camped enough 
mounted men to strike a fatal blow upon the Ma' 
rine Brigade. In spite of the way his muscles dragged 
limply with fatigue, he straightened his back, pulled 
his lips tight as he was brought to Col. Ferguson 
in a small headquarters tent. The sun, low on the 
horizon, burned through the wall behind the com' 
mander so that Bill could distinguish none of his 
features against the bright light. There was only a 
steady, meaningful voice: 

“Your name, sir?” 

“ William Wingate, pilot on the steamer Diana of 
the Mississippi Marine Brigade.” 

“T hank you,” the Colonel went on in an even 
tone. “I wish to learn of their projected movements. 
What was their object in landing across the river?” 

“They wished to look over the ground, sir,” he 
answered, hoping that would suffice. 

“What did they expect to find?” 

“I don’t know. Being only a pilot, I was not told 
of Gen. Ellet’s plans. I am merely given orders to 
bring the boat to a certain place. When we leave 
that place, I am given orders for the next trip.” 

Bill could feel his heart pounding as the Colonel 
considered his reply. 



220 


Pilot on the Fiver 


“And you had received no orders for the next 
move of the fleet before you came ashore?” 

“No, sir. I merely strolled into the creek bed to 
get away from the boat for a few minutes. I have 
no idea what will come next.” 

“Would it be your opinion that the Brigade was 
seeking this camp here? Planning an attack to anni- 
hilate me?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“But you know of no definite plans to that effect?” 

“No, sir. As I told you, I am only a pilot.” 

“Did it also ever occur to you that you might be 
subject to an unpleasant experience if I discovered 
you were lying to me?” 

“Yes—yes, sir. That’s—that’s one of the reasons 
I’ve been telling you the truth.” 

The colonel turned to one of Bill’s captors. 

“Jim, I’m afraid you drew a blank. I can tell this 
boy is concealing nothing.” 

“We only obeyed your orders to bring in anyone 
we could discover.” 

“Of course, it’s just more ill luck. Now, young 
man,” Ferguson’s voice turned steel-edged as he spoke 
to Bill. “You have the freedom of this camp. You’ll 
find a cot and some blankets above the horse bam. 
But remember! Our sentries’ guns are always loaded. 



Bill Wingate, Prisoner 


221 


We dislike to shoot a man—least of all a boy—in 
the back, but that is the only way an escaping pris' 
oner can be shot. Don’t forget that!” 

Trembling, beaten. Bill collapsed on the cot which 
the soldier had assigned to him. It stood in the loft 
of a great plantation bam, full of horses, tack and 
supply wagons. Weakly he refused food, but the 
soldier sympathetically reappeared a few minutes later 
with a tin plate of stew and a cup of water. Bill 
could only nod his thanks. 

All life seemed to have left him. The future looked 
hopeless. If only he could get back to the Fleet! 
Warn them of this camp! Yet it would be futile to 
try to escape on foot through the sentries. 

Dutifully he began to eat the stew. He could feel 
no appetite for it, knew only that he must do every' 
thing possible to overcome discouragement and get 
back his strength. For what seemed hours, he lay on 
the cot, defeated. 







Before long the food seemed to warm Bill and set 
his mind to working again. Peering through the semi- 
darkness, he inspected every comer of the great loft. 

His cot stood at one end, at the head of a ladder 
and trapdoor through the floor. A heap of farm im¬ 
plements filled the rest of the space, a great, half- 
empty hayloft that occupied the center one-third of 
the floor area. 

Slipping off his shoes, trying carefully to avoid all 
creaking boards, Bill worked through to the opposite 
end of the bam. This corresponded exactly to his 


222 



Bill Escapes 


223 


own end. A pile of miscellaneous discarded tools, 
another trapdoor and ladder. 

He could see nothing but darkness through the 
trap, two of whose edges were formed by the end 
and wall of the building. Bill lay flat on his stomach, 
craned his neck to try to scan the ground floor. In 
the faint light from a lantern at the far end of the 
bam he finally made out a flat bed wagon directly 
below him and another open door. Up by the Ian- 
tern, two men rummaged around harness racks. 

Quickly Bill hurried back to his cot, looked 
through the trap. That was wagon harness they 
were working with. Perhaps here was a chance. He 
lay quiet, listening. 

“■—the end one. There’s a canvas on it already.” 

“Right,” his companion replied. “We’ll hitch that 
one.” 

As fast as he could move quietly. Bill sped, shoes 
in hand, to the other end of the bam, down the cor- 
ner ladder. Crouching behind the tailboard of the 
wagon, he put his shoes on. Should he risk the men’s 
not looking under the canvas or take the chance of 
their flashing the lantern under the tailboard? Either 
way involved a tremendous risk. And Bill could not 
forget those steely words of Col. Ferguson. 

Making himself as small as possible. Bill lay on the 



224 


Pilot on the River 


ground, wedged against the wall behind a gun car' 
riage that lay next to the wagon. Luckily his fears 
were groundless. The men set the lantern in the 
middle of the floor and backed the team up to the 
whiffletree. They said nothing as they clambered, 
grunting, onto the seat and clucked at the horses. 

As the wheels began to turn, Bill half dove, half 
climbed under the canvas. He lay still, breathless, 
waiting to see if they had heard him, then decided 
the creak of the turning wheels and the grating 
words of the drivers trying to get their team going 
out the door had muffled any sound he could have 
made. Relieved he took a deep breath and lay down 
to wait for Greenville. 

He began to relax, to plan the next move when 
fear clamped at his heart. A human hand seized his 
wrist. 

The suddenness of the move would have burst a 
shout from Bill’s throat had not smother strong hand 
clapped over his lips and nose. Panic swept through 
him. Col. Ferguson’s words clattered in his ears. 

Then a voice, barely audible, breathed at his ear. 

“Don’t call out. I don’t know who you are, but 
if you try to expose me I’ll cut your heart out with 
this knife.’’ He released Bill’s wrist and pressed a 
cold knife blade gently against his palm. 



Bill Escapes 


225 


“Don’t worry,” Bill could hardly find the breath 
for his whispered reply, so violently had he been 
shocked. “I’m escaping, too.” 

“We get out just before we come into town. I’ll 
lead the way down to the river.” 

“All right.” 

Bill did not in the least like the prospect of 
throwing in his lot with a stranger, but there was 
no other way now. Impatiently he waited, the min¬ 
utes dragging by. 

It was nearly an hour later that his unknown com¬ 
panion wriggled around to peek out over the end 
gate, then tumble noisily off into the road. 

Instantly Bill ripped the canvas from over his head 
and plunged over the side of the wagon, streaked 
blindly away from the road. 

“Hey! Stop. Quick, they’re getting away,” the 
men on the seat shouted together. 

Bill drove ahead, pounding every ounce of power 
into his cramped legs. Ahead he could see a man, 
obviously the one that had been in the wagon with 
him. At his right were a few lights, probably those 
of Greenville. That meant the river lay straight 
ahead of him, past a wall of trees. 

“Stop or I'll shoot!” a voice bellowed from behind 
Bill, but he kept on, praying a shot could not reach 



226 


Pilot on the River 


him. Desperately, he took a pivoting, zigzag course, 
hoping that would confuse the riflemen’s aim. 

Then shots bit into the night. If only those trees 
were not so far away! 

Suddenly a scream rose over the clatter of shots, 
a long rising scream as the man ahead dove forward, 
rolled over himself, then lay still. Now Bill could 
feel footsteps pounding closer. 

Gasping, and nearly exhausted, he rushed past the 
dead man into the clump of willows. Out of the 
comer of his eye he recognized the Confederate uni' 
form—a deserter, probably—as he pounded into a 
diagonal path. Now the shots and the footsteps had 
stopped, but Bill kept going. Only after hurling him- 
self into the shallow water at the levee did he dare 
pause and try to catch his breath. 

For fifteen minutes he waited there, but no one 
appeared over the top of the levee. The next step 
he had already planned, and luck followed him again, 
for here was a skiff, complete with oars and even a 
fishing line. Swiftly he cast off and, with the skill 
he had learned at Quincy, sculled far out into the 
stream without making a sound with the oar, keeping 
as much out of sight as possible. 

Then, after slipping off his jacket and cap and feel' 
ing his money belt securely in place, he climbed onto 



Bill Escapes 


227 


the thwart and rowed upstream, keeping well away 
from the arc of faintly-illuminated river before the 
city. 

One look was enough. There were no boats tied 
up at the landing and none in sight upriver. The 
Marine Brigade must either be well above Green* 
ville and not contemplating an attack on Ferguson’s 
force, or else still some place downstream. Without 
a second’s hesitation, Bill turned the skiff around 
and began pulling hard with the current. 

It took a long time for him to get down to the 
spot where he had left the fleet, and, as he expected, 
they had gone. Now he shipped his oars, eased him* 
self onto the bottom of the boat and watched for a 
spot where he could hide for the day that would 
soon be breaking. 

Already the blackness in the east had begun to 
fade when he ran past a long island near the Arkan¬ 
sas shore. Heavy screens of willows hung over the 
smoothly moving channel with the ground rising 
slightly farther inland. Bill remembered it from his 
trip down on the Diana. If he could get around the 
foot and work up into the willows, he would be safe 
for the day. 

Day after day passed as Bill lay in hiding or drifted 
slowly toward Vicksburg, living mostly on berries. 



228 


Pilot on the Fiver 


On only one night did he find a spot where he dared 
build a fire and cook a string of catfish. 

Always, except when asleep, he kept a sharp look¬ 
out for the Brigade, not knowing that they had been 
sent to the Tennessee River direct from Lake Village. 
He waited, too, for some opportunity to stop a Union 
boat with a flag of truce, but none passed at a time 
when he could risk exposing himself. 

On the last evening, his hunger had grown too 
painful to bear. About twenty miles still lay between 
his camp and Young’s Point, but he gritted his teeth 
and determined to get to the fleet no matter what 
the danger. Bravely he thrust all of his ebbing 
strength against the oars and made the skiff fairly 
fly over the water. 

Three hours later, Bill could locate himself only 
when the channel ran close to shore. As the boat 
headed in again toward the Louisiana side, his nose 
caught the sharp, acrid odor of wood smoke. Ship¬ 
ping the oars, he let the skiff drift through the dark¬ 
ness. Around the next bend he should be able to see 
the Union gunboat fleet. Yes, he could hear the 
rumble of cannon. 

The scene that flashed before his eyes as he turned 
that bend would never leave his memory. For the 
entire river from the Vicksburg shore to the settle- 



Bill Escapes 


22Q 


ment of DeSoto across the channel was lit up by 
fires, burning buildings, and brush piles. 

As if for his benefit, the guns thundered out in 
a new broadside. The flash of exploding shells 
splashed with now colors the flames on the banks. 
Silhouetted against the brightness, adding to the din, 
drove the Federal gunboats, the Carondelet and Louis* 
ville, the ram General Price, captured at Memphis, 
and five other gunboats. To the rear rode trans' 
ports, hulls protected with coal barges lashed to their 
sides, upper works barricaded with cotton bales. 
For the first time, mere transports dared to run the 
murderous Vicksburg batteries. 

This action could only mean one thing, that Grant 
was moving troops downriver to land somewhere 
below Vicksburg for a flanking movement against 
the batteries. 

The fleet drew closer and closer to the batteries. 
Grant must mean to cut himself off from his base 
entirely and risk everthing on trying to snatch a foot' 
hold below the city. 

Now the fleet charged on more rapidly, straight 
into the thick of the inferno of shot and shell. Bill 
could hardly draw his fascinated eyes from that pic' 
ture of horror to think of his own position. 

He knew he could not stay where he was with the 



2 3 0 


Pilot on the River 


fleet gone. His only salvation would be to join them. 
But what man—or boy—would dare to dash in an 
open boat into that downpour of death? 

Bill strove to quiet his drumming pulses as he 
threw himself into one last effort at the oars. Two 
hundred yards to go! A shell burst behind his stem, 
tearing the river into treacherous whirlpools, nearly 
spinning his small craft end for end. Drenched with 
perspiration and river water, head aching from the 
smoke that bit at his eyes and lungs, ears jangling 
with the clamor of explosions, he headed for the 
barge lashed to the Tuscumbia, the last of the gun' 
boats. A hundred yards to go now! 

But the skiff had dived from beneath his feet, 
smashed to bits as a brutal wall of water crashed upon 
it. Could he reach the barge, half-paralyzed with 
exhaustion, through that turmoil of water? Only 
instinct made Bill’s arms thrash out, his legs beat in 
a desperate effort to swim. And it was strength be' 
yond description that flexed his arms, pulled him onto 
the coal barge to lie panting, oblivious to the leaden 
death that burned down on all sides. 

Then a new sound, an insistent whine, penetrated 
Bill’s consciousness. A shell coming dangerously 
close! He tried to move, to shake into activity his 
spent muscles. 




A hundred yards to go now! 



















Bill Escapes 


233 


Closer, more intense drove the deathly tone. Bill 
dragged his knees under him, fought upright, peered 
over his shoulder. He hurled himself into the river 
as the shell tore into the barge under the load of coal. 

Then the shell exploded. 

For a moment nothing seemed to happen, except 
a flash and a report, until the stem of the barge tore 
out with a rending, shrieking crash. 

With all his might, Bill tried to hurl himself up 
and over the guard onto the Tuscumbia , but it was 
no use. Before he could escape, one of the heavy 
barge timbers thundered down across his feet and 
legs. One desperate effort to move, one searing 
flame of pain, and Bill knew they were useless. 

Now the barge had burst into flames and men on 
the Tuscumbia had begun to slash with axes the lines 
holding it to the gunboat. Each movement a now 
agony. Bill seized the guard and inched along toward 
them, screaming at the top of his voice. 

Only when he heard a blurred voice through the 
hammering in his ears did he relax. 

“Pull him up here. Get him inside,” said the voice. 
“He’s in bad shape.” 

Then the voices faded, and Bill Wingate let the 
cool blackness wash him under. 



Chapter XX 

REUNION IN ST. LOUIS 

Nearly two years passed with Bill Wingate lying 
helpless in the Vicksburg hospital. Grant had finally 
taken the city by seige. Union Armies in the East 
had conquered Gettysburg in that same July of 1863. 
Now, in 1865, Grant had forced General Lee’s sur¬ 
render at Appomattox, and finished the War. 

Only in the last week or two had Bill been able 
to walk slowly across the room between two nurses. 
Each day he gained more strength. Having the war 
off his mind helped his recovery, but he would im¬ 
prove more rapidly if he could drive out those other 


234 


Reunion in St. Louis 


235 


worries, those anxieties that nagged at him day and 
night. 

Bright, encouraging letters from his father huv 
dered rather than helped. With only a little over a 
thousand dollars due him, Bill knew there was no 
way now that he could buy a steamboat, achieve the 
task he had set for himself. It would be hard now 
even to get a berth as a pilot. With the South shat' 
tered by business failures as much as by cannon fire, 
trade would be slow in returning to normal. 

He thought sadly of how he had happily an' 
nounced to Constance that night, near the Red 
River, that he would come for her in his own boat. 
It had seemed difficult enough then, considering her 
father’s views on Northerners. Now it would be 
impossible. Bill lay back against the pillows on his 
chair, shut his eyes against the sunshine that bright' 
ened the grass and flowers of the hospital grounds. 
Too discouraged to care about anything, he did not 
hear his name spoken by a voice behind him. 

“Here he is, sir,” a nurse announced respectfully. 

“Thank you,” came the reply in leisurely, mas' 
culine tones. “He seems to be asleep.” 

“No, I don’t think so. Mr. Wingate,” she touched 
Bill’s shoulder gently. “You have a caller.” 

“All right,” Bill returned disinterestedly, taking 



236 


Pilot on the River 


it for granted that the visitor was, as usual, just a 
friend from some other part of the hospital or from 
the Union garrison. 

“Good afternoon, William Wingate,” the gracious 
voice surprised Bill. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.” 

“Of—of course not, sir,” he struggled to his feet. 
The caller was Constance’s father. “I—I didn’t mean 
to be rude, Mr. Harrison. I guess I was just too mis' 
erable to be polite.” 

“Forget it, my boy. And sit down again. I’ll 
bring that chair from over by the bushes for myself.” 

Bill watched Mr. Harrison as he crossed the lawn 
and started back. Even though his manner had not 
changed from the air of elegance and courtesy Bill 
had known at Oaknoll, Planter Harrison seemed 
older, less autocratic. Bill could see that collapse of 
the Confederate States of America had left its mark 
on the older man’s pride. 

“I imagine you wonder why I’m here,” he seated 
himself carefully, then treated Bill to a friendly smile. 

“A little,” Bill confessed hesitantly. 

“Well, it happened I met your friend Josiah Hart' 
ley at Cairo when I helped make arrangements for a 
number of our exchanged prisoners, their transpor¬ 
tation home and so forth. He told me you were here, 
and I, in turn, told my daughter. We both thought 



Reunion in St. Louis 


237 


I should stop in to see you the next time I came to 
Vicksburg. That’s all there is to it.” 

Bill was puzzled at the kindness, the cordiality of 
Mr. Harrison’s words. It couldn’t be that he had 
forgotten his hostile attitude, especially after the 
Union had brought about the Confederate surrender. 
But Bill could not suppress the hope that rose within 
him. If only Mr. Harrison could accept him as a 
man, as a fellow American, not an enemy! 

“It was nice of you to come,” Bill filled the silence. 
“Did Jo go back to Memphis?” 

A twinkle lit Mr. Harrison’s eyes, a mischievous 
smile Bill had never seen before. 

“I can only tell you I understand he’s to be in 
St. Louis. There’s a reason for my secrecy.” The 
smile grew into a happy grin. 

Baffled, Bill studied this new side of Mr. Harrison. 

“But why?” then added hurriedly, “if I may ask, 
sir.” 

“Of course, you may ask, but I’m convinced you’d 
rather I didn’t tell you. You’ll find out all about it 
after you leave here and get up to St. Louis next 
week.” 

“Well, all right,” Bill managed a feeble grin. 

“But there’s something I really wanted to say. 
Seriously.” 



238 


Pilot on the River 


Young Wingate waited impatiently as Mr. Harri' 
son paused. 

“I want to clear up what I’m afraid was a mis- 
understanding. You felt I considered you my enemy 
when you were at our home just before the—just 
before the Spring of ’61, didn’t you?” 

“I didn’t know. I thought it best not to say any' 
thing about it,” Bill prayed that the next sentence 
would bring the answer he wanted so much. 

“I just wanted to say that I am sorry if I gave you 
such an impression. We Southerners feel our loyal' 
ties strongly, but we insist on being gentlemen as 
well. We hope not to cause any innocent party pain 
because of those loyalties. 

“Ever since that day you and Jo Hartley rescued 
my daughter and Miss French at New Orleans I’ve 
admired you. And the fact that you were bom in 
the North had no effect on that admiration. Your 
determination to make good on the river and your 
unselfish bravery under fire has made me admire you 
even more. If I had had a son I would have wished 
nothing more of him than to approach the world as 
you have. I’m only sorry that incident with Mar' 
cellus had to happen.” 

“That’s—that’s very kind of you, Mr. Harrison,” 
Bill put in shyly, abashed by the flowery words of 



Reunion in St. Louis 


£39 


praise. “I’m glad you feel that I’ve done my best— 
even though I’ve failed so far to—” 

“None of that,’’ the smile was back on Mr. H ar ry 
son’s face. “A boy like you will come out right in 
the end. But I must be getting along. Mrs. Harri' 
son and Constance both wanted me to tell you, 
though, that you’ll be most welcome at Oaknoll— 
or what’s left of it—as soon as you’re moving about 
again. And I add my own invitation to that.” 

Bill got to his feet, met Mr. Harrison’s outstretched 
hand with a sincere clasp. “I can’t tell you how kind 
you’ve been, sir. Or how much I appreciate it.” 

“I’m glad,” he returned simply and was gone. 

So it was a happier Pilot William Wingate who 
stood at the boiler deck guard as his transport drew 
nearer and nearer to the line of steamboats at St. 
Louis. He waited anxiously for the solution to Mr. 
Harrison’s secret, as gay hordes of returning soldiers 
pressed closer around him, straining their eyes for the 
first sight of the city. Excited groups of people 
rushed toward the wharfboats as the pilot blew long 
blasts on the whistle. 

Just as the transport’s prow reached the lower 
end of the line of boats, a brass band on the levee 
broke into the new song, Marching Through Georgia. 



240 


Pilot on the River 


Cheers roared up as the pilot pulled her into a berth, 
as rousters rushed out with the lines, and swung out 
the stage to the mate’s voluble commands. 

Then Bill spied two figures, one slender and slightly 
stooped, one rotund and triumphant. Both waved 
violently, joining in the cheers. 

Recklessly Bill dove into the mob of soldiers tramps 
ing down the forward companionway and the gang' 
plank. In another moment, he jubilantly returned 
the pummeling of Jo Hartley and the warm greeting 
of his father. 

“You two!” he cried. “How did you get together? 
Who could ask for a more royal homecoming than 
having you both here to meet me!” 

“Jo—” Jack Wingate began, but Bill interrupted 
him. 

“So that’s it," he laughed, noticing the others’ 
pulled looks. “Mr. Harrison came to the hospital 
to see me and very slyly refused to tell me why Jo 
was coming to St. Louis from Cairo.” 

“I knew he wouldn’t spoil our secret,” Jo put in, 
his hearty laugh ringing out. “He’s a sly fellow 
when he wants to be.” 

“Come on. Out with it,” Bill insisted. “Did you 
have some plot, you two?” 

Jo took father and son by their respective arms 



Reunion in St. Louis 


241 


and led them up the hill, announcing grandly, “We 
have great plans under foot—or afoot, I mean—for 
our various futures. We will discuss them up at the 
coffee house. Now, no explanations until then.” 

As they hurried along, Bill realized they were head¬ 
ing for the place where Jo and he had had their last 
talk with Andrew Lexington. Suddenly the full 
realization that they would never see Lexington 
struck home. Unconsciously Bill held back. 

“What’s the matter, partner?” Jo was instantly 
sympathetic. 

“Shouldn’t we go some place else? I mean—on 
account of Andrew Lexington?” 

Jo shook his head decisively. “Not on your life! 
Andrew Lexington is why we’re going there. He 
wanted us to tell—whoa there, I almost spoiled it.” 

Bewilderedly, Bill let Jo lead them to the same 
table they had occupied with the pilot who had lost 
his life in the Battle of Memphis. After they had 
given their orders, Jo winked at Jack Wingate. 

“You tell him, Mr. Wingate. I want to do nothing 
but watch him smile.” 

“All right,” Mr. Wingate agreed, as boyishly 
happy as the young engineer. “Jo, here, was with 
Andrew Lexington when he died. Lexington had 
saved a little money and had some pay coming, but 



242 


Pilot on the River 


there were no relatives. He asked Jo to see that it 
came to you. He said you had a special use for it. 
It amounted to several thousand dollars.” 

“I didn’t get it,” Jo interrupted, “until I was re' 
leased and got back to Memphis. I didn’t dare tell 
you about it at Cairo because I wasn’t sure.” 

Too moved to reply, Bill tried to smile to hide 
the queer catch in his throat. 

“Tell him the rest. I can’t wait,” Jo urged. 

“It isn’t much,” Mr. Wingate went on modestly. 
“But Jo told me you went onto the river to earn 
enough to buy a boat to be operated by Wingate and 
Son. And that you couldn’t make ends meet after 
being wounded in the war. Is that right?” 

Bill nodded. 

“Well, when you so unselfishly donated some of 
that money to help me and my store out of a tight 
situation, when you paid off that debt without even 
telling me about it, you naturally acquired a share in 
my store. And, since I thought you’d rather have 
the Wingates running a steamboat than a store, I 
found a generous buyer, and sold the store. Now 
I’m ready and waiting for you and Jo to take me out 
shopping for steamboats. How—” 

“Dad! And Jo!” Bill cried gleefully. “We start 
right now. I hear we could get one at New Albany—” 



Reunion in St. Louis 


243 


“And there’s a big packet on the Upper River for 
sale,” Jo broke in. “Capt. Merriman told us about 
it.” 

Jack Wingate only leaned back in his chair and 
smiled blissfully, waiting for them to decide what 
boat to look at first. 





Chapter XXI 

THE MODEL OF THE CHALLENGER 
Bill Wingate took over the wheel of the rejuven- 
ated sidewheel packet Challenger as she neared Har¬ 
rison’s Landing. In his pride of ownership, he for¬ 
got that his legs ached from standing his share of the 
watches, for, over the office forward on the boiler 
deck, was painted jack wingate and son, owners. 

Mounting to the hurricane roof was Jack Wingate, 
at his side Capt. Merriman, who had insisted on com¬ 
ing on the Challenger’s first trip as a paying passenger 
even though he had helped the Wingates to secure 
their new boat. 

244 















The Model of the Challenger 


245 


Yankee Jack Wingate tapped the landing bell, then 
smiled back over his shoulder to the pilothouse. Bill 
grinned gaily back and whistled into the speaking 
tube. “Half speed, Jo. We’re almost there!” 

Smartly the stage swung out as the bow touched 
the landing. One long pull at the whistle cord, and 
Bill was hurrying down to the forecastle. 

For up the stage hurried Constance Harrison and 
Lucy French, behind them their parents. By the time 
Bill reached the forecastle, Jo was helping them onto 
the boat. 

“A fine good momin’ to yo’ all,” rolled out his 
wide, deep baritone. “Certainly sorry the manage¬ 
ment can’t be on the job to greet such important 
guests.” 

“No, Jo—” Lucy began to protest, but Bill broke 
in. 

“The management, father and son, welcome you 
all,” he bowed. “How do you like her?” 

“She’s grand, Bill,” Constance smiled proudly. 
“I’m so —so happy —oh, for you all.” 

“Just a moment,” Mr. Harrison shook hands with 
Bill. “We would like to take cabin passage aboard 
this packet if you have it available. We have a din¬ 
ner engagement in New Orleans with a Mr. Wingate 
and his son and a Mr. Hartley. At Antoine’s.” 



246 


Pilot on the River 


“Right this way, sir. Mr. Wingate Senior will be 
proud to take care of you.” 

As introductions were made and the register 
signed, Mr. Wingate turned to Mr. Harrison. “Your 
luggage, Mr. Harrison?” 

“Ha! I nearly forgot,” the planter roared with 
laughter. “I have a little surprise of my own.” 

The party waited for him to go on. Bill was about 
to speak when Mr. Harrison suddenly called toward 
the landing: “Marcellus! What’s got into you, boy?” 

No response, only a slight rustling behind an oak 
tree on the bank. Finally a sleepy Marcellus, rubbing 
his eyes, stumbling up the plank with the bags. 

“Mistuh Bill! And Mistuh Wingate!” he cried 
happily. “I’se sho’ glad to see yo\” 

“Would you like to have Marcellus on your crew?” 
Mr. Harrison asked. 

Bill’s anxious enthusiasm was his answer. 

“Fine. He can start right now. I know you’ll help 
him arrange for his family up in Quincy.” 

Bill nodded unbelievingly, felt his eyes misting. 

“Go ’long now,” Mr. Harrison waved him away. 
“Aren’t you going to show my daughter the boat?” 

The tour ended in the pilothouse where Bill offered 
to take the wheel. The pilot went below quickly, 
but winked back over his shoulder. 



The Model of the Challenger. 


247 


Below the pilothouse the Mississippi spread ma¬ 
jestically on all sides. For a moment neither Bill nor 
Constance spoke as the gleaming Challenger swept 
downstream. 

“How would you like to keep her going straight 
down the channel?” Bill at last spoke. “For just a 
moment. I have something to show you.” 

Though she had never held a steamboat wheel in 
her life, Constance smiled and quietly grasped the 
spokes. Bill drew a wooden case from beside the 
stove, and opened it on a small deal table by the 
starboard window. 

“How do you like that?” when he took the wheel 
again. “It’s a model of this boat.” 

Constance gasped with delight at the perfecdy de' 
tailed miniature, complete with boats, even with tiny 
pilots leaning out of the windows. “It’s beautiful!” 
she cried, then abruptly laid her hand on Bill’s arm. 

“But that name on the paddle box. It’s—it’s not 
Challenger 

“That’s why I showed you the model. That’s the 
name we want to give this boat, the Constance H. 
Wingate. After my—my wife,” he stuttered shyly. 

“I’m glad you want that name, Bill,” she said 
sim ply. “Because I do, too.” 

“You won’t mind if your Chief Engineer also is 



248 


Pilot on the River 


a married man, do you?” boomed from behind them. 

“Congratulations,” Bill shook Jo’s hand warmly. 
“We’ll have to have a double wedding. And if you’ll 
send that pilot up here, Constance and I will follow 
you below and make plans.” 

As Jo disappeared, Bill found Constance standing 
quietly beside him at the wheel. They did not speak 
as he crossed the long, wide stretch of river before 
them shimmering in the late afternoon sun. And, 
within himself, Bill could feel the future opening 
ahead of him in the same way, sure, happy, bright 
and peaceful—like the river. 




GLOSSARY 

Abolitionist —A man or woman who believed slavery should 
be abolished. 

Aft —Toward the stem. 

Berth —A job or position. Also a bed on a ship. 

Boiler Deck —The deck, second up from the water that 
usually carried the men’s and women’s social cabins, the 
staterooms, etc. 

Breast Line —A mooring line at the bow exerting a pull in 
a direction at right angles to the keel of a boat. 

Cabin Passage —The privilege of traveling from one landing 
to another with cabin and food provided. Contrasted 
with Deck Passage. 

Capstan —An upright, revolving drum, usually on the fore' 
castle, worked by long bars, used for heaving on moor' 
ing lines or for any other pulling too heavy for men alone. 

Casemate —Shielding, cut for guns, protecting gunners from 
enemy fire. River gunboats were usually enclosed on all 
four sides by four continuous casemates. 

Channel —The course of a river, usually the deepest por' 
tion and that portion chosen by pilots. 

Chief Mate—First mate. 

Chute —A rapidly running portion of the river, usually 
narrow, between one bank of an island and the main' 
land. 

Companionway —A flight of stairs leading from one deck to 
another, often enclosed. Sometimes called a Ladder. 

Confederate —Of the Confederate States of America, en' 
emy of the United States of America. See Rebel. 

Crossing —Running a boat from one bank of a river to am 
other to follow the channel. 

Cub-Pilot —Apprentice to a pilot. 


249 


250 


Glossary 


Deck Passage —Privilege of traveling from one landing to 
another at a lower rate because no food or cabin were 
provided. Often deck passengers helped pay for their 
trip by loading wood or freight. 

Dix Note —A ten'dollar bill issued by the “Banque des 
Citizens” of New Orleans. “Dix,” meaning ten in French, 
was printed on one side of the note, explaining the term. 
These were as stable as any currency in the country in 
pre'War times. Many say Dixie Land was the land of 
the Dix Note. 

Draft —The amount of water necessary to float a boat. Thus 
a shallow draft boat required less depth of river than 
a deep draft boat, and shallow draft boats were used on 
the smaller, shallower rivers. 

Falls —Lines used for hoisting or lowering a skiff or yawl. 

Federal —Of the United States of America. See Union. 

First Mate —The officer of a boat second in command to the 
captain. 

Flag Officer —Commanding officer of a fleet or flotilla. 

Flotilla —A group or fleet of boats. 

Forecastle —The forward portion of the main deck extend' 
ing ahead of the superstructure. 

Frigate-rigged —Rigged as a sailing vessel of the frigate type. 
Many of the Gulf Squadron in the War between the 
States used engines for power but carried sail rigging 
for emergencies. 

Galley —The kitchen on a boat. 

Gangway —A plank or stage extending from the forecastle 
of a boat to the shore or wharfboat. Often only a single 
piece of lumber. 

Guard —Railing or projections around the outboard edge 
of a boat. 



Glossary 


251 


Guerilla —Detached soldier, or soldiers in a small band, 
used to harass the enemy separately from the regular 
movements. 

Headline—A line used to moor the bow of a boat. 

Hurricane —The deck on which the texas is laid, usually 
the third deck up from the water. Also known as the 
Roof or Hurricane Roof. 

Invest—To surround or lay siege to. 

Jackstaff —The staff at the very bow of the boat on which 
a flag was flown. 

Keel—Timber running through the center of the bottom 
of a boat from bow to stern. 

Ladder—See Companionway. 

Landau—A carriage on which the top can be thrown back. 

Lanyard—A piece of line pulled to discharge a cannon or 
mortar. 

Larboard —To the left. Replaces on river boats the word 
port which is used in deep sea parlance. 

Lashing—Tying or binding securely with line. 

Lead—A device for sounding (See Sounding), consisting 
of a piece of lead at the end of a light line, marked at 
regular distances. 

Leadsman —Member of the crew tossing lead and calling 
depths. 

Levee—A dike built to prevent lowlands from being flooded 
at normal or high stages of the river. Also a paved area 
on the bank in front of a town used as a boat landing 
and a storage space for incoming and outgoing freight. 

Lines—All ropes; mooring, hoisting, etc. 

Main Deck—The deck, first up from the water, on which 
the engines were set and of which the forecastle was the 
forward portion. 



252 


Glossary 


Mortar Boat —Barges, towed by steamboats, enclosed on 
four sides but not roofed, carrying a gun to throw shells 
at a high elevation. 

Mortar Guns or Mortars —Guns, not rifled, used to hurl 
shells or bombs at high elevations. A mortar would be 
used to send a cannon ball over a wall while a rifled gun 
would be used to send it through the wall. 

Mud Clerk —Second clerk, usually an apprentice, learning 
the business end of steamboating. Called Mud Clerk be- 
cause he had to climb over muddy levees to check freight 
in or out. 

Musket —A rifle or firearm carried by infantrymen. 

Natchez Trace —The old trail leading north from Natchez. 
Used by rafters and keelboatmen who had floated down¬ 
river, sold their craft and cargo at New Orleans, and 
traveled home on foot. 

National —Of the United States of America. See Federal. 

Overhang —The portion of deck and superstructure extend¬ 
ing aft over the water past the end of the keel. 

Paddlebox —The housing around a paddlewheel on a side- 
wheel boat. 

Partner —Pilots spoke of the other pilots on their boat as 
their partners. 

Ports —Openings in the side of a boat. Cut through case¬ 
mates for guns in the gunboats. 

Purser —Chief clerk, business head of the boat under the 
owner. 

Quill —A clerk. 

Rebel —Enemy of the United States of America. See Con- 
deferate. 

Rifled Guns —Guns bored with a spiral grooving to give the 
projectile better direction. 



Glossary 


253 


River Defense Fleet —The Confederate river fleet. 

Round to —Bring the bow of the boat around into the 
current. 

Rousters —Roustabouts, deck hands, freight handlers. 

Runners —Solicitors employed by steamboats or hotels to 
approach prospective guests or passengers as they stood 
on levees or boats. 

Scull —Propel a boat with a single oar at the stern. 

Shippers —Those sending goods via steamboat. 

Slate —Many boats carried slates similar to school slates to 
be signed by passengers just as a guest signs the register 
in a hotel. 

Snipers! —Riflemen, usually hidden, used to concentrate on 
a single enemy as opposed to mass fire of troops. 

Sounding —Measuring the depth of the river with a lead. 

Sounding Boat —Rowboat, skiff, yawl used for soundings, 
usually kept fitted out with leadlines, buoys, etc., ready 
to be launched when sounding was necessary. 

Southern —Pertaining to the states which seceded and 
formed the Confederate States of America. 

Stage —See Gangway. 

Starboard —To the right hand. 

Steersman —An assistant to a pilot, usually a cub pilot, 
handling the wheel under the pilot’s direction and re' 
sponsibility. 

Stemline—A line used to moor the stem of a boat. 

Texas—The cabin house on the top “layer” of the boat, 
under the pilothouse, used as cabins for the more im' 
portant members of the crew. Called texas because state' 
rooms on the boiler deck were usually named after states 
of the Union and Texas had been just brought into the 
Union when this top cabinhouse was named. 



254 


Glossary 


Texas Tender —A waiter or servant who took care of the 
wants of those in the texas or pilothouse. 

Throttle —The lever controlling the speed of an engine. 
On most sidewheelers, each wheel and its engine had a 
separate throttle. 

Thwart —Seat in a skiff or rowboat. 

Tintype —An old form of photography in which the image 
was printed on a piece of tin instead of on paper. 

Topside —The upper portions of a boat. To go topside 
is to go to a higher deck. 

Towhead —A low point of landing extending into the river. 

Turpentine Balls—Balls of rags or some absorbent material 
were soaked in turpentine, lit and thrown or shot from 
a gun in an attempt to ignite their target. 

Union —Of the United States of America. See Federal. 

Ways —Drydock or marine railway on which a boat is built 
or hauled out for repairs. 

Watch —Time spent on duty. Steamboatmen usually 
worked fourdiour shifts. 

Western Flotilla —The Union river fleet. 

Wheel house —Housing for the paddlewheels. 

Winch —A device used for the same purpose as a capstan 
or windlass. 

Yawl —Rowboat or skiff, often steered with a rudder, used 

. for taking sounds or as a tender. 



BIBLIOGRAPHY 

Lloyd, James T., Steamboat Directory . 

., Daily Ledger (Memphis, Tenn.) October, 1857, 

through February, 1858 

., Daily Appeal (Memphis, Tenn.) Jan. 1, 1856, 

through August 20, 1856; September, i860, through Decem¬ 
ber, i860; January, 1862, through June, 1862 

., Official Records of Union and Confederate Armies 

and Navies in the War between the States. 

Miller, F .T., Photographic History of the Civil War, Vol. VI 

., Battles and Leaders of the Civil War 

Lossing, B. J., Pictorial Field Book of the Civil War 
Mahan, A. T., The Gulf and Inland Waters 
Merrick, G. B., Old Times on the Upper Mississippi 
Gould, E. W., Fifty Years on the Mississippi 
Quick, W. and E., Mississippi Steamboatin 
Laidlaw, G. E., Pageant of the Packets 
Hartsough, M. L., From Canoe to Steel Bottom Barge 
Saxon, Lyle, Father Mississippi 
Paine, A. B., Biography of Samuel L. Clemens 
Clemens, S. L., Autobiography 

“ “ Life on the Mississippi 

“ “ Tom Sawyer 

“ “ Huckleberry Finn 

Masters, E. L., Samuel L. Clemens , A Portrait 
DeVoto, Bernard, Mark Twain s America 
Short, L. M., U. S. Steamboat Inspection Service 
Walton, W., Army and Navy of the U. S. 

Petersen, Wm. J., Steamboating on the Upper Mississippi, 
The Water Way to Iowa 

Crandall, W. D., and Newell, I. D., History of the Ram 
Fleet and the Mississippi Marine Brigade 
Porter, David D., Naval History of the Civil War 
Browne, C. A., Story of Our National Ballads 


255 


















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